The Front
by robspace54
Summary: Captain Matthew Crawley and William Mason, his aide, are in combat in France in the horrible world of trench warfare. How do they cope with the stress of battle? Are thoughts of home a harbor of safe haven or a vain hope of salvation?
1. Chapter 1

The Front

By robspace54

**Downton Abbey is the creative property of Carnival / Masterpiece. The story here is, if anything, a tribute to the characters, situations, and timeline of DA. I claim no ownership of anything, merely my over active imagination.**

**Note: This is an altered version of my original story to try and align it with Series 1 and 2 canon. I apologize for any confusion in doing so, but I (and perhaps you) may find it slightly better for the reading. RS**

Chapter 1 – Dugout

Mud. Cold, smelly and sticky mud and it was everywhere. In his ears, his mouth, and in his underwear. He shivered in his sodden trousers and wool sweater under the Burberry and uniform jacket. Impossible to stay dry in these conditions. He spat mud from his mouth and wiped his lips. He was tired; oh, so tired as he sat slumped on a ration box.

He heard his aide clattering about at the tiny stove, fueled with broken bits of ammo cases and fractured duckboards. "Sir. Tea."

"No thank you, William. You drink it," Captain Matthew Crawley told his batman. "You have it."

"Can't sir. It's the last. You need it more than I." William Mason said. The boy was a farmer's son, then second footman at Downton Abbey, and now his aide. The teenager prodded his charge. "You should drink it up, sir."

Matthew looked up at William, standing over his superior, back just as straight as ever. "Private Mason, you look like you are waiting table at Downton. No white gloves though."

"Yes sir." He held out the tin mug. "Drink." He pried Matthew's fingers apart, pushed the warm cup into his superior's hands and folded the fingers tenderly around it. "Now sir."

"Whatever would I do without you?" Matthew asked. "I'd starve, or freeze, or…"

William pressed his shoulder. "No sir. Don't think like that now! What would your mother say if she heard you talking like that?"

Matthew put the cup to his lips, feeling grit in his mouth, but he drank it anyway. He closed his eyes as the warm liquid filled his mouth and as he swallowed the weak, yet sweet brew, he felt a little human once more. It even washed most of the taste of mud away. Mud that was composed of dirt, water, clay, shell fragments, wood, rotted cloth, and the atoms of pulverized men. He knew the last was true as he'd seen it happen. A shell came in, a tremendous boom, and where a British soldier had been there was nothing; just another smoking shell hole with a few tattered bits that used to be a man.

But at least that was a clean death. No mustard gas, that blinded or made a man cough up his lungs, or a bullet that spared the soldier long enough so he could lie there and watch his blood pump all away, or a shell fragment to slice open a belly or lop off an arm or leg. And the screams along with the smells, they would last in his head. Screams of pain, cries to God, or the name of a loved one. Those screams echoed at night when he tried to sleep. Oddly the most common last word of the gravely wounded British soldier, if they could speak, was 'mum,' as so many were so young. He squirmed at the futility and waste of it all. Matthew felt at times that he and his men were merely to be tossed at the enemy, as expendable as what must have been the millions of bullets already fired.

Death to Matthew now smelled like cordite, mud, blood, vomit and excrement. How many men had he lost by now? He'd have to ask Mason who kept the tally. Far too many good men blown to bits, or shot; either killed outright, or invalided away from the front. Some missing arms or legs, hands, eyes and ears, or sanity. And those bloody machine guns! Their rate of fire was hundreds of rounds a minute that could kill or cripple an entire company in an instant. And still the orders came from the rear; hold, advance, retreat, over the top men! It was senseless he knew.

But they must hang on, in spite of the artillery, grenades, night patrols, and the rats. The trenches were filled with the vermin. Sometimes at night, if the moon was up, you could see them, hordes of them, feeding on the dead in No Man's Land. And when there were no dead to eat, they came into the dugouts, bit the men, ate their bread and curled up with them, stealing what little warmth they had from their bodies.

November, he sighed. The battle had started in the spring and Lord only knew how much longer it would go on. There was ice in the shell holes two days ago, and the men, especially those with trench foot, were hobbling about in the icy muck that filled the bottoms of every trench. Winter was coming along with more rain and mud and much more death, he knew. The generals must have their own ideas, he thought, about this battle but Matthew called it Hell or at least a major gateway to it.

He shivered again and peered out the tattered canvas that covered the door of the dugout at the narrow trench outside; the trench that served as home, refuge, and strongpoint. His dugout was built into the forward side of the deepest trench, and was tall enough to stand up in. It provided cover from plunging fire, snipers, and shell fragments. The Duke of Manchester's Own had held this position for three weeks, and were likely to be in position for days and days longer, until relieved. Even then they'd only be pulled back a few hundred yards, still well within enemy artillery range. The Hun had their position well sighted in, and only after the sappers had taken out three German 75s, limiting offensive fire to those little mortars, did they get some relief from the pounding they took last week. Mortars had smaller bombs, with a lot less punch, but their high angle of fire could drop the eggs straight down their throats.

Matthew had a close call last night when a mortar round dropped straight into the trench as he was relieving himself into the privy can outside the dugout. He'd heard the high pitched whistle following the sharp cough of the mortar as it spat the shell, just four hundred yards away across No Man's Land. He'd frozen in fear, thinking that this was it - the end - with the shell screaming louder as it fell right on top of him.

His fiancé's pale face, Lavinia Swire, flashed through his mind, and he hoped that the explosive round would leave no evidence on his dead and blasted body that he'd died with his old man in his hand. He didn't even have his tin hat on, so he leaned into the oozing side of the trench, mud coming through the fascines that braced the wall. At least his face might be recognizable after razor sharp steel splinters tore him apart. The noise made by the falling shell was the last sound he would hear. Involuntarily, he said one word. "Mary," came out.

The shell dropped right beside him with a loud squelch into the deep mud at the bottom of the trench. He looked down and saw the guidance fins on the tail quivering from the impact. He breathed again and once more, as his troopers stuck their heads out of holes and dugouts in the trench.

"Jesus!" one said, looking up from the fresh mortar round at the shaking young officer. The soldier laughed when he saw what Captain Crawley was doing. "Blimey, Cap. Almost copped it as you was taking a leak!"

Matthew stuffed his privates back into his trousers and buttoned them up. "Sergeant!" he yelled, his voice cracking.

A splashing in the gloom and a strong smell told him Sergeant Cropper had arrived as he detected the man's tobacco dip. Where he got the snuff was a wonder.

"Sir! Where's your helmet, sir?" Cropper asked.

Matthew grabbed the man's Burberry. "Don't. Don't take another step. Look down."

Cropper's eye's drifted down to the muck in the trench.

"Mortar bomb, Sergeant! A dud. Get the Engineers to dispose of it, would you?" Matthew whispered. Then he'd stepped as smartly as possible back into the dugout and only then slumped to the ground.

William had heard the commotion and was roused by the thump as Matthew's head hit the grimy floorboards. The aide sprang up and knelt over Matthew. "Sir! Sir!" he shook the young officer who lay as if dead.

"I'm all right," Matthew groaned. "Nothing…" he gulped. "Nothing happened."

"Nothing?" He hauled Matthew upright and brushed him off.

Matthew grabbed William to steady himself. "William, however will we tell them, back at home, what we've seen here? Done here?"

William smiled grimly at Matthew last night and only nodded, then gently laid the quivering young officer down on a cot and wrapped him in a dirty blanket.

Now William was pouring the absolute last of the tea into the captain's mug, not hours later.

A messenger splashed through the muck outside and pulled the canvas aside. "Sir? Captain Crawley? Message from regimental headquarters, sir." The man saluted as Matthew stood and returned it. The soldier held out a dispatch. "Orders sir."

Matthew took the envelope in one hand. "What's your name private?" he asked the boy who was tall and broad but his face looked _very_ young.

"Somers, sir."

"How old are you son?" the Captain asked.

"Seventeen, sir. Well… I hope you don't tell sir."

"They took a seventeen year old? I am appalled!" He knew that the age of volunteers had gone down. But seventeen?

"No sir. I joined last year. For King and Country, sir!"

"But that would have made you…"

"Sixteen, sir. I'm big for my age."

Matthew turned to William with his mouth agape. "Has it come to this?" He looked the boy up and down. He held out the tin mug, to the messenger, holding the precious last of the tea. "You need this. Drink it."

The child took the cup and drank. "Ah. Just like my mum makes back home. Thank you sir."

Matthew clapped the soldier on the back. "Glad you enjoyed it." Matthew shot his cuffs and straightened his uniform jacket. If Somers, a mere boy, was able to serve, then by God he would as well. He tapped the dispatch with a dirty finger. "Let's see what headquarters has in store for us," he muttered resignedly, opened the flap and pulled out a typed sheet.

**Author's note:**

**The conditions described here as undergone by soldiers in the trenches of the Great War are true, for both sides.**

**Fascines – A woven wicker matt that was used to reinforce the sides of trenches and fortifications to prevent collapse.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Lavinia

Matthew held the typed sheet and read it. The crisp white paper was a glaring jolt against the background of dirt and mud, browns and olive drab. Hard to believe that even at the Front, there were typewriters. Probably not unlike the one in his law office in Manchester. He employed a clerk to type on it, but he could fumble over the keys and peck out a line or two. Reading the dispatch, the operational orders sorted themselves into the phrase 'Suicide Club' in his lawyer's brain.

He could tell where the keys had stuck together, where the typist had pressed the keys too quickly, making a squished together imprint. The letters 'p' and 'a' of the word 'patrol' were half spaced and smeared, making an odd symbol on the crisp paper.

Matthew fingered the paper, even able to read the Brigadier's watermark upon it. Well, he thought, things must not be too terrible if they still had paper like that at the Rear. He even supposed that regimental was in a house, with beds, real fireplaces, and no rats. He inhaled deeply and focused his mind on the message.

"Will there be a reply, sir!" asked Somers.

"We'll see to it. Please tell the Signals Officer they were received and are understood. That will be all, Private."

The boy saluted and turned to go. "Sir! Thank you again for the tea. You're a wonder." The young soldier brushed the canvas aside at the portal, put on his Brodie, and stepping into the mire of the trench, was gone.

Matthew held the paper a moment, and passed it to William. "Have a look. Then burn it."

William Mason read the orders and held it gingerly as if he'd not want to dirty it with his soldier's fingers. "Yes sir. Well…"

Matthew nodded. "Shame we got that. Looks like rain tonight."

The batman ran his finger over the pure white bond paper. "Yes sir. This reminds me of the paper at Downton sir." He held up to the dim light of the smoky oil lamp. "Likely the same papermaker." He crumpled it and fed it into the stove. He gazed at the flame as it was consumed and held his chilled hands out to the heat from it. "I wonder how far that paper had to travel, so someone could type the order, dispatch it here, so we could read it." He chuckled. "Then I warmed my hands by it. A wonder."

Matthew stood still upon hearing the word 'wonder' for the third time in less than a minute.

A _wonder_. Yes. That word took him back to the days before he was deployed back to France, after his promotion to captain in His Majesty's Army.

Lavinia Swire had smiled timidly as he walked from the house into the garden. She'd come up from London for a few days before he had to leave. His mother was out somewhere, and she'd pulled out the stops to make everything at the house perfect. Fresh flowers were everywhere, most from the Downton greenhouse he was certain, and Lavinia was wearing some elaborate blue frock with the most fetching hat.

She smiled as he approached her. "Turn around," she said.

Matthew stopped and rotated a full turn showing off his uniform, fresh back from the tailor. He'd burst a seam at the shoulder, climbing onto a horse at parade. A few stitches only and it was the work of a moment for the tailor to fix it.

Then the man was so complimentary to Matthew as he settled the coat back onto his shoulders. "Now this - this is a uniform!" the tailor exclaimed as he smoothed the fabric. "I'd like to go with you!"

"Yes?" Matthew looked at the gray hair, bent fingers and thick glasses. "Don't know if… they… that is… if they take gentlemen of your age, Abram."

Abram laughed. "You officers! So full of pride in serving! Just joking, Captain Crawley. I'm so old…" he cracked his neck. "The arthritis, my fingers, achh!" he held out his hand. "May I offer my sincerest wishes for good luck, may God look after you, and may he keep you safe? And send those Huns to Hell!"

Matthew shook his calloused hand and the grip was like iron. "Thank you, sir."

Abram let go of his hand and bowed low. "No, sir. Thank you!"

Matthew left the shop quickly, quite embarrassed by the show of emotion. That emotion was far more expansive than he himself felt. As he walked home, he was saluted by passersby and for a few moments led a parade of two small boys who marched along with him.

Now in his mother's garden, Lavinia ran her hand over the wool coat, admiring the lapels, the fine stitching at the hem, and the brass buttons. Having the tailor and the children fawn over him was one thing, but this, he thought was too much.

"What a lovely coat! Marvelous fabric. A wonder!" She smiled sweetly. "Molesley said he'd bring tea when he saw you arrive. Won't be a moment." She took his hand and sat down on the garden lounge. "Sit with me?"

Matthew loosened the coat, took off his hat and sat next to his fiancé. Her reddish strawberry hair was brilliant in the sun. "Lavinia…"

She put a gloved hand to his lips. "Shush. Let me just look at my lovely Captain Crawley."

Matthew looked away, embarrassed.

"Matthew?"

He ignored her for a moment and then said, "Don't. Not you too."

"What? Can't I enjoy looking at you?"

He closed his eyes. "It's all so unreal. Volunteering, the promotion, this uniform. Back to France in a few days…" His lip quivered. "Hero worship."

"Matthew? Oh don't. Don't do this." She touched his elbow with a slim gloved hand. "You'll be fine. You will."

He wanted to tell her that he was not at all confident. Matthew wanted to say that for the last three nights he'd had nearly no sleep. The Army, Lavinia, his mother, and cousin Mary were all mixed up in his head. He sighed as he looked down. "I wish…"

"I know, Matthew. I know," Lavinia said softly. "I wish that as well." She put a gloved hand on the back of his neck. "No need to talk of it."

Matthew felt the sunlight fall warm on his back, the silk of the glove on Lavinia's slender fingers against the skin of his neck, the fine pea gravel of the walk under his polished shoes and he wanted that moment to last forever. No war and no fear was what he wished for. Just to be able to marry this lovely girl, and someday to live at Downton Abbey. That was what he wished for now. Sunny days, fresh flowers and with this sweet girl by him, and not the looming specter of the battlefield and mud and gory death.

And it was a wonder that everything in that moment in the garden came flooding back to him, especially the soft kiss that Lavinia bashfully placed on his cheek. "There," she said.

A splash of a footstep came at the torn canvas, and Sergeant Cropper and two Corporals stood there. "Heard we had orders sir?"

The present flooded back. "Yes, Sergeant," Matthew answered. "Orders for tonight."

Matthew smiled at Cropper and the tough mustachioed soldier almost thought the Captain was enjoying the moment, but if he only knew that Captain Matthew Crawley was thinking of a sunny afternoon in the garden last spring, then he would think the Captain was barmy.

**Author's Notes:**

**Brodie – A British steel helmet, aka "tin hat," named for the inventor, John Brodie. Also called a battle bowler.**

**Suicide Club – a raiding party into No Man's Land**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Suicide Club

"Call it what you will," said Matthew, "this will be tough."

Sergeant Cropper nodded. "That it will sir."

They were looking at a sketch map laid on a rickety board table in the command dugout. William had lit two extra lamps, borrowed from the dugout next by, so they had some chance of seeing the spidery lines in the dim light.

William held an electric torch over the Captain's shoulder for even more light. "Better, sir?"

"Thank you, Private." Matthew pointed to the v-shaped zigzag trench lines of the enemy with a bayonet. "This map we know all too well. They have three machine guns in nests; just here. Fifteen yards apart or so with two listening posts out front, at least they did three days, ago." Matthew looked around the small underground room, now packed with men. He'd asked the Sergeant to pick the men carefully for this one. He knew them well, most of them. "Evans and Styles, your jobs are to cover our flanks while we get here, thirty yards away from the center machine gun. There's a slight defile where we can set up recon. From there we can reconnoiter their trench lines."

"Just the two of us, sir?" asked Styles, as the Sergeant whacked him on the head.

"Yes. Just the _two_ of you. One on either side of the main group." Matthew sighed. "I want you two flanking the five of us – Evans on the left, Styles to the right. No more than ten yards off our flank."

Evans blinked in the light, his nervous eyes fluttering. "Not much firepower, sir. The three-oh-three is a fine rifle, but, even with snap shots, I don't see…"

Cropper grunted out, "Let the Captain finish boys. Go ahead sir."

"Thank you Sergeant. Now, here's the thing," he scratched his neck. "Our job is not to kill anyone. This is a recon party." Matthew knew this was a fool's errand. Only tossers at the Rear could dream this one up but he went on. "The rest of us, that's Corporal Smith, Privates James and Nicol, plus Mason and I will make up the main party."

A low whistle came from Nicol. "Thanks a bunch, sir." The man rolled his eyes at Matthew.

Matthew gave the man a level gaze. "You're welcome, Private. You've all been picked especially as you all have excellent eyesight and know how to move silently."

"Wish Lieutenant Cox was still here, he'd have been up for this!" muttered James and the rest stared at him with a mixture of disgust and horror.

"James," said Matthew quietly, but it took all his strength not to yell aloud, "Lieutenant Cox was invalided home after he… broke. Not his fault."

The Sergeant looked daggers at the soldier. "I'll speak to you later," he hissed.

Cox had been sent off and they'd not see him again, after he'd staggered out of the trench with four bandoliers across his chest in broad daylight screaming at the Hun to get ready as he was 'going to get them!'

It had taken four troopers and a swung fist to knock him down and out. It wasn't that incident that did it. It was what came next, as the tall blonde Lieutenant hunkered down in the bottom of the trench vomiting violently, and then had sat up claiming he had a headache and why was he loaded down with so much ammunition?

So Cox was sent to the Rear. Shame, reflected Matthew, he was a fine officer. He cared for his men, made sure they got their rations, tried to keep them safe, and made sure their weapons were clean so they would not jam in action. He'd also become a friend and though Matthew had written to him at hospital, no post had been returned, yet. Perhaps when he was better rested he would send a return letter.

"Any more questions?" Matthew went on. "Blacken all skin and faces. Everyone have gloves? If not, see to it Sergeant. It's raining, of course, so ponchos, but no extra kit. Not a canteen or ration box. No bayonets. Nothing that will clink or rattle. Use French letters on the rifles to keep them clean. Mason and I will have the compass and the sketch board." He looked at his watch. "It's ten o'clock now. We go at eleven fifteen, while it's likely still raining. Rest while you can. We'll be back at our lines in two hours. So get some rest. That is all."

Matthew knew the enemy lines were barely 400 yards away. If he could walk in a straight line at the leisurely pace of only two miles an hour, he could go there and back in just under fourteen minutes. But there were shell holes to skirt, wreckage to go around, and to do it all silently would take the best part of two hours, moving slowly and quietly. Just one wrong move, one slip up, one clink of kit or the eyes of a German lookout – the balloon would go up.

The soldiers cast long looks at one another. "Total barmy is this one," one muttered, just loud enough for Matthew and the Sergeant to hear.

"Suicide club indeed," said another. "Total cock up."

"Jesus, sir. Tough one eh?" said Cropper as he herded the men away. "Want me to come along with you?"

"No. I need you to keep order here. The password will be 'kitchen' on our return. I think we might be able to pull this off without a shot being fired, on either side." He drummed the map. "I'll have a Very pistol. If you see a red flare then open up with everything you've got. I'll only use it if we get discovered."

"Sir? You'll be in the cross fire!"

"I know, Cropper. We'll just keep our heads down, now won't we?" He squared his shoulders. "That is all. Assemble the men at eleven."

The Sergeant saluted.

Matthew wearily returned it. "Carry on."

Mason doused the extra lamps and began to assemble his kit.

"You think I'm mad, don't you?" Matthew asked his aide.

"No sir. You're doing your duty."

"Yes," he answered the boy. "You must be right. Not that I feel like it."

"Sir. I'm very grateful that you arranged things – so I could be with you."

"You're welcome, William. Now let's see about that blacking for our faces."

"Yes sir. I use a bit of lard and plenty of lamp black." He displayed a tin of greasy stuff and sprinkled a good handful of lamp black into it. "I mix this in well…"

Matthew laughed aloud. "William, can you imagine what Mr. Carson would say if he saw you working away to make things dirtier, rather than cleaner?"

William turned to Matthew, his gray eyes wide and then his square jaw opened into a grin. "No sir, I can't."

Matthew clapped the lad on the shoulder. "All part of the duty, William."

"Yes sir."

**Author's notes:**

**Three-oh-three – The British standard issue bolt action rifles of the time the .303 Enfield. In a trained soldiers hands, they could fire fifteen rounds in a minute, having ten bullets in the magazine and one 'up the spout' – in the breech.**

**French Letters – Condoms made from pig intestine, haven been universally employed by soldiers for generations to keep dirt and rain out of rifle barrels. Although the chances of liaisons at the front, or near it, were rare, venereal disease was rampant at the Front.**

**Poncho – A waterproof drape, with a hole in the center for the head, leaving the arms generally free of restraint.**

**Very pistol – A flare gun, invented by the American Navy officer Edward Wilson Very. Used to fire flares of different colors for signaling or illumination.**

**The balloon would go up – Military signal given to attack or for artillery to start firing, from about 1915. British forces literally fired when the signal balloon was released.**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – Butter

"Now I mix this quite well…" William said. "Until it's like butter." He stirred the lard and lampblack, soot scraped off a lamp chimney, with a flat stick until it had the consistency of goose grease and the color of tar.

Butter, he thought, and that reminded him of the scullery maid Daisy Robinson. He'd steal as much free time as he could to visit the kitchen to see her. She was small, petite, barely coming up to his chin when he stood up straight, which was very often.

Mrs. Patmore the cook looked up at him with disgust. "William! Shove over! I need room to bake! Do you have to be mooning about down here? Go polish silver, clean glasses, do something!"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore," he said. Technically he worked for Mr. Carson. Actually they all did. He was the second footman, and that second part Thomas would never let him forget. Worse, Thomas had his eyes set on being Lord Grantham's valet, but as he jousted with Mr. Bates, he also did everything he could to push William lower in the house. But Mrs. Patmore was correct; he did need to do something. He left for the butler's closet to polish glasses.

Behind him, he heard Mrs. Patmore tear into Daisy. "Daisy! Get a move on girl! You're standing there like a statue!"

"Yes, Mrs. Patmore."

Mrs. Hughes passed William in the hall. "Mrs. Hughes," he said.

"William, I think Mr. Carson was looking for you."

William nodded and headed straight to the butler.

Mr. Carson was sitting behind his desk as William entered the small office. The desk sat at an angle, facing the door, so Mr. Carson could squarely face the visitor for a position of power. Power and rank Mr. Carson had. Though Mrs. Hughes was the housekeeper, Mr. Carson was The Butler. Even Lord and Lady Grantham seemed to ask his advice, or at least asked the man's counsel.

So William stood very still, straight and respectful before _his_ lord and master. "Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes said…"

Carson held up his hand and William shut up.

"Close the door, William."

"Yes, Mr. Carson." William gingerly closed the door and stood at attention. He guessed this might not be very good.

Carson cleared his throat. "William, I want to speak to you… about your deportment." The butler's voice was level, slow, and calm.

William braced himself for a blast. "Yes, sir," he said slowly and tried to keep his knees from shaking.

Carson stood and came around the desk and looked up at William. He liked the boy. He worked hard, never a bobble that wasn't too serious, that is. "William. Mrs. Patmore has spoken to Mrs. Hughes and she has discussed the matter with me."

"Mr. Carson, what have I done? I know that Mrs. Patmore doesn't seem to like me…"

The butler held up a hand and William ground to a stop. "Now, now. Lad…" he shook his head for a few seconds. "William the look on your face is if I am about to accuse you of stealing the silver!" He held a calming hand. "Lad… it's very obvious that you are _interested_ in Daisy."

The blood rushed to William's face. "But Mr. Carson…"

Once more the butler held up a hand and William closed his mouth. "If you interrupt me once more I _will_ get cross. Now," he tugged at his jacket, "the girl is attractive to you obviously and young of course. But… she has a job and so do you. Please let her do that job?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson. I will." William felt sweat break out on his brow. His father always could tell when he was telling a fib, as he started to sweat, just like now. "I'm sorry sir."

"That's quite all right, lad. Now it seems to me though, that Daisy, as she is just a slip of girl, may _occasionally_, and I stress the word, may need, on a _rare_ occasion, help reaching a pot or baking dish on an especially high shelf. Perhaps when you see that she is straining up to reach such an item, you could help her? I have noticed that she has a predisposition to stand on a wooden step stool in the kitchen storage. That stool does not look very sturdy to me. Perhaps we need to replace it. But in the meantime," he smiled a tiny bit at the quivering boy, "I'd hate for the girl to fall."

William smiled back then stood up straight once more. "Yes, Mr. Carson."

"Oh, and another thing, I heard you saying the other day that you wished to volunteer for the Army."

"Yes, I do. My dad, well, he says I can't, sir. He forbids it. But it's my duty. Our duty."

Carson sighed. "Whatever would we do without lads like you?" He pursed his lips. "Well, I suspect this will be sorted in time, eh?"

"Thank you, Mr. Carson."

"Now, off with you. And stay out of Mrs. Patmore's way, hmm?"

William went into the corridor and in a minute his spot was taken by Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper. She closed the door behind her. "How did it go?"

Carson shook his head sadly. "The boy is besotted with her."

"Yes, I know," she said. "He goes all goggle-eyed when he goes into the kitchen or the servant's hall and sees her standing there. And the poor girl doesn't even know he exists, well barely."

Carson looked under his busy eyebrows at her. "We'd best keep an eye on those two."

Mrs. Hughes sighed. "And your Thomas is baiting the poor boy all the time over it."

Mr. Carson put his hands behind him. "Yes… then we'd best keep an eye on those three."

"Indeed," she said. "Daisy may need help with a large tub of butter. Perhaps William could assist her with it?" The housekeeper smiled.

Carson nodded.

William hadn't meant to hear the quiet conversation between butler and housekeeper, but he'd heard a scratching at the rear door and found the telegraph deliveryman there. He took the sealed envelope and was taking it to Mr. Carson to be delivered to his Lordship, when Mrs. Hughes scurried into the butler's office and the door closed. He'd stood there quietly and pretty much heard every word.

He then quickly withdrew to the rear door, made a noise of opening it and closing it, then rushed down the hallway to Mr. Carson, holding the envelope by the corners. He saw Mrs. Hughes walking away, so he handed the envelope to the butler. "Mr. Carson, this just came."

"Thank you, William." Mr. Carson smiled. "I was just speaking to Mrs. Hughes and she suggested that I send you to the kitchen to help Daisy carry a tub of butter from the cold larder. Seems she dropped one the other day and Mrs. Patmore tore a strip off her. We can't have that, now can we?"

"No, Mr. Carson." William grinned.

"Well get to it, then."

William trotted through the kitchen, across the dry store room, then to the larder. Sure enough Daisy was struggling to move a large tub of butter from a shelf. "Daisy? Let me help you with that." He easily pulled the container off the shelf, but Daisy was holding firm to it.

"William! I can do it myself!" She tugged at the thing, but William held fast.

"Mr. Carson sent me to…" he started to say. "You've been baking."

"What?" the girl said. "Have I got flour on my face or somethin'?"

"No," he replied sweetly. "You smell like butter." He inhaled deeply. "Like a dairy. Like the cleanest dairy in the world. Filled with the freshest cheese and butter!"

Daisy grew flustered. "William! Let me have it!" she yelled and wrenched the tub from his hands, and literally ran with it back into the kitchen.

"Done mixing, Mason?" asked Captain Crawley, who was peering over his shoulder. "Looks about right. Like butter you say?"

"Yes, sir," replied William. "Like butter."

Matthew had no idea why the stirring of lard and soot should make the private so happy, but he could see that William was smiling as he did it.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 – Foul Up

Matthew had done everything possible to pull off the hare-brained mission. The men were the perfect choices, their equipment was carefully picked, each face was blackened with soot but it all went downhill after it stopped raining. They had left their trench and crept, bent over like aged pensioners, towards the enemy line. They had not done badly, considering the darkness, pouring rain and the shell holes which rapidly filled with water, so they had to skirt every one of them to not make a sound. Splashing would have alerted the Hun too easily.

They'd made good time in spite of it, even though sporadic sniper fire was off to their right, where in a few minutes an artillery barrage started, quickly followed by counter-battery fire. That had kept up for ten minutes and the noise from a half-mile off had covered their approach.

The defile was a shallow channel, enlarged by shell craters, and it had two dropped trees on the far side, making the perfect cover. That cover, the Germans had realized was too perfect, so they'd thrown a barbwire entanglement on their side of it. Strung up on pickets, it made one of the few landmarks in the lunar-like landscape of the battlefield.

Matthew held up a gloved hand when they got to it, and he deployed Evans and Styles out to the flanks, not as far out as he'd liked. There was, or used to be, a German OP a few yards away, but it had been raided so many times, the enemy gave it up as a bad idea. Matthew could just make out a tilted and wrecked periscope jutting above torn sandbags from the former Hun post. He knew it well, as he'd led three raids against it, finally blowing it up on the last. Consequently, he'd been chosen for this mission.

He was just sending Nicol and James to crawl forward, all of this done by hand signals of course, when the rain stopped. Silence fell on the battlefield, and Matthew almost imagined he could hear a sigh of relief from the armies camped about them. Then horrors, the wind blew and the clouds parted, and moonlight shone fitfully over the land.

William looked hard at the Captain, who motioned silence and stillness.

Matthew craned his head around slowly and could see Styles looking at him pitifully, as he was exposed. Matthews's gloved hand told him to stay _still_! A quick look the other way and he saw Evans crouching by a tree stump, doing a very good job of looking like a pile of dirt.

Nicol made a move and Matthew grabbed the man, holding him still. His fist was bunched in the man's poncho and Matthew held him for a few seconds until he got the message.

So there they all lay, spread out like pawns on the chessboard, waiting to be sacrificed. No one moved, until Matthew heard noises from the German trench. The sound of digging, wet earth and mud splashing, and low muttered voices with a curse word thrown in. Matthew knew enough German to tell that two men were cursing their Oberleutnant for making them deepen the trench, even though for every shovel they moved, another slid back into the mire.

So they lay there in the wet wind, on the cold muddy Earth, exposed for just one pair of enemy eyes to detect a British helmet out there on the living head of a Tommy.

Matthew lay doggo for as long as he could, while the Hun soldiers dug, cursed, and made more black remarks about their pig of an officer. He smiled in spite of himself as it seemed that armies were the same the world over. Finally he wiped the face of his radium watch, which Lavinia had paid £2 for as it was guaranteed waterproof and so far it was worth the money. They'd lay there for over an hour, already.

Time went by, the Germans dug and cursed while Matthew tried to stay focused in vain.

Lavinia was superbly dressed and a bit nervous at her first visit to Downton Abbey sat to his left, and Matthew was just at the corner of the large dining table. Cousin Mary was on his right, looking very smart this evening. His replies and manner to her were carefully calculated as he'd not want to offend her, nor embarrass himself or Lavinia; all a bit of a balancing act. Luckily Lord Grantham had welcomed them so warmly at the concert that no one dared to make a fuss.

There was a conversation going on at the other end of the table and he tried to follow it. But the fine table setting, the marvelous food, the wine, and his military formal attire contrasted sharply with the rude question that his cousin had just asked.

"Matthew," cousin Mary asked, "What is it like?"

Matthew knew she didn't mean the food. She was asking about the war; the Front. What _was_ it like?

The beautiful room and people made a distinction with the images that flashed in his head. He looked at her, her pretty face, smooth skin, wonderful hair and jewelry. He looked down a moment then gave her the answer she likely did not want, but that she deserved. "I'm sorry. I can't talk about it." She did not need to know what it was like. He'd not make a scene.

William Mason lay in misery as he'd got a bit of tummy flux that morning, and he was now laying on something hard, a root or a rock, and that made his gut hurt. So he thought of his girl.

Daisy Robinson had come into the servant's hall as he sat there sad after those women barged into the concert and handed him a white feather.

God. Didn't they know that he wanted to do his duty? But his father had forbade him to join up, wouldn't allow it, his dad had said; _unless_ he got called up. William did not think he was a coward, but by some standards he was.

"I can cheer you up!" Daisy said, raised his chin with a hand and kissed him full on the lips. "There! I bet that will make you feel better!"

William felt such joy it was like he'd burst. "Daisy, does this mean you'll be my girl?"

Her pretty smile fell. "Whatcha' mean?" She twisted her apron, sprang up and rushed away.

William lay in misery, both body and soul, until the clouds filled in, the light faded, and the rain began once more in about another hour.

Matthew stayed still until it got very dark and the rain poured down once more. He was drenched to the skin, and shivering made his teeth chatter, so he bit down on a glove to stop the noise. When he could stand it no more, he did what any officer would do. He signaled his men and they slowly and carefully slithered back towards their own lines.

They were nearly back when some joker decided to take potshots at the enemy. That drew return fire like bees to flowers. Bullets, mostly from rifles, were passing close by, but Matthew yelled out when a machine opened up from the Hun. "Kitchen! Kitchen, damn it!" He screamed out the password. "Covering fire!" He shouted louder. "Kitchen! Coming in!" To his men he screamed, "Go! Go! NOW!"

They all got up and ran then fell, jumped, or slid into their trench having no regard for decorum, rank, or who was in the way. The Suicide Club barely made it back to their line when enemy artillery opened up and the shells fell thick.

Matthew found himself perched on top of two machine gunners, who were unlimbering their gun.

"Jesus, Captain! We're trying to work here. Out of the bloody way!" one said.

"Sorry, boys! Guess I fell," he told them.

He picked himself up and checked on his men. Yes they'd all made it back. "Anyone hurt?"

Smith and Private James limped by. "I twisted my ankle and Nicol fell on his arse," said the Corporal.

"Might a been worse," said James. "Total balls up, though. I need a fag," he said then felt his pockets. "Shit, lost my lighter."

Matthew shook his head sadly. Yes a total balls up; that about summed it up. Complete foul up and nothing learned.

William ran to him as the troops fired back at the enemy with shells thundering in. "Captain Crawley, are you hurt sir?"

Matthew felt his limbs. "Seem to be all right. You?"

"Fine," said the boy. "Did we learn something, sir? The recon I mean?"

Cousin Mary asked, 'what was it like?' He'd wanted to tell her. But he knew he never could or would. Only those who'd been through it would know, or could know.

Matthew shook himself. "The recon. Yes." He ducked as more shells crashed behind them showering them with mud and splashes. "We found out the Germans hate their officers."

William snickered.

**Author's Notes:**

**OP – Observation Post. Used to observe enemy movements, direct artillery fire, or as a sentry post to prevent infiltration of your lines by the enemy.**

**counter-battery fire – When artillery is fired, if two or more observers can plot the location of the enemy muzzle flashes, then return fire from your artillery can fire on to try and destroy those weapons. **

**Order of the White Feather – Started by Adm. Charles Fitzgerald in 1914, it was a way to 'shame' objectors, or others who had not enlisted, as at first only volunteers were taken by the armed forces. The white feather was made a sign of cowardice, so self-righteous female members of the organization would target those men who were seemed fit and not in uniform for this coercion.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – Post

William Mason chewed on his pencil and thought hard about what he wanted to say or should say. The censors would ruthlessly cut away anything that would alarm people at home, or, if captured, might give away information to the enemy. The enemy. He thought that a funny since King George V was himself part German. He sighed. Well he'd taken the name Windsor, they'd heard, so he guessed he was British through and through, like the rest of them.

"Writing home, Mason?" asked the Captain. The boy sent letters to his dad, his girl, and even to Mr. Carson; this was another.

"Yes, sir." William looked across the command dugout at Matthew Crawley. "Do you write... that is often, sir?"

Matthew grimaced. "Not as much as I ought, I suppose. You're writing to…"

"Daisy, sir. Robinson, sir."

Matthew nodded. He knew Daisy very indirectly as he'd heard Anna, Cousin Mary's housemaid mention 'Daisy the scullery maid' once. "You know, William, you don't have to keep answering me so formally. Not in private." Matthew turned and waved his hands about the dugout. "You can see we have quite an audience this evening."

"No, sir. Sir - about formality - I can't. You are an officer and it wouldn't seem right, sir."

Matthew looked down at William, crouched over the paper, lit by the light of a feeble candle that guttered in the cold breeze that wafted in from outside. He listened to the sounds of artillery in the distance. It was far off, and not coming closer; at least two miles, he judged by the muffled crashes. Someone was catching Archie tonight.

William blew on his cold fingers. "But what can I say sir?"

"Have you gotten any post from her?"

"I have sir. Three days ago, and it was posted just ten days ago, sir."

"Remarkable. This muddled flap and the post gets through. Damn." Matthew cursed not about the mail, but about his bafflement that the post got through, while waterproof boots, small box respirators, and more blankets seemed to be held up somewhere.

"Yes, sir."

Matthew looked over the boy's shoulder. "Answer her letter. Make comments about what she wrote. She'll like that. Pretend you're sitting at table with her. She just spoke - told you things in her letter - so you reply."

"Good idea, sir." William felt he should mention the baking.

Matthew blew on his hands. "Cold isn't it? I think a letter would be a good idea." He moved to the command table, found paper and pen and he began to write one of us own. He had a few minutes before he needed to check on the men.

000

_12 Nov, 1917_

_Miss Daisy Robinson _

_Downton Abbey_

_Yorkshire_

_Dearest Daisy,_

_I am sorry I haven't written for a while. The Captain has been keeping me very busy lately. You must have some idea how it can be with so many things to organize - I must feed the Captain, keep his uniform looking fine, if possible, a real stretch at times, and act as his aide in all other things. The other day I traded some food items that came in a parcel for a good wool blanket that Capt. C. praised greatly._

_The food items came in quite handy, donated by a certain person, and they were parceled out to one and all of our company. Sweets, cigarettes and clothing handed out and enormously useful._

_Remember that Christmas when Lady G. sent parcels to all our families? My dad told me that, as mum was no longer with him, rest her soul, he'd talked to his vicar and donated that parcel to the neediest family in the borough. They'd likely never heard of truffled chocolates but they got them when they celebrated the Lord's birth. So it is here. I'm not saying that there are not selfish people here, as we'll always have those sorts, but I've seen 4 soldiers share a single fag that just one Tommy had left._

_The baking you've been doing with Mrs. Patmore sounds lovely. Will she let you bake more? Try a pie or two – cherry is my favorite. I wish I was there to sink my teeth into her applesauce cake and anything you had a hand in. I've not ever baked a thing in my life. It sounds so useful._

_Best push off now, as there are always things to be done. Staying fit and fine. Hope to get leave soon and if I do I will come to see you._

_Sincerely,_

_Private William Mason_

_Duke of Manchester's Own_

000

_Nov. 1917, France_

_Lady Mary Grantham_

_Downton Abbey_

_Yorkshire_

_Dearest cousin,_

_The box of provisions arrived safely and I was very grateful to receive it. The coffee was superb. The woolen socks were very much appreciated as well. You can only imagine how the warmth of ten pair of good wool socks will keep feet warm and dry here._

_The chocolates and the cigars were very much treasured. They are welcome additions to the larder, as I don't smoke, but they came in very handy when acquiring much useful things here._

_I saw Thomas B. the other day with the med corp. He seems to be carrying on bravely, even had a cup of tea, and we talked of old times. The circumstances were different from the old days, but we spoke of Downtown, and how it must have been a lifetime ago – or it feels like it._

_Mother wrote to say that she has had great success with her special activities, thanks to the generosity of Lord and Lady G. Mother's success will ultimately be laid at the Abbey's doorstep for hosting the entire affair._

_Lavinia writes that she has invited you to visit with her at father's house in Town, and I hope that you'll be able to go. I do so want you and L. to get on, for her sake if not mine. I have every confidence that you'll take care of L. as she would care for you. She can be shy, but is so sweet to me. I pray that you'll take her into your heart the way I have. Of course you'd stay with your aunt Rosamund when you go up to Town, but Lavinia would like to get know her better as well._

_Much to do as always here, as you may imagine. Please pass on my heartfelt regards to your family and to Mr. Carson for loaning me the use of Mr. Bates when I last needed help with a missing button. I can see that Bates is a wonderful valet to your father. My batman once said that if he'd be assured of serving a gracious person such as Lord G. he'd stay in service two hundred years if that is what it took. William is a good soul, helpful at all times and in all things to me._

_I pray that you are well, and that the situation at home is not too drear. Must be frightful with all the normal activities at ebb with the current situation. What keeps me going is the thought that when this is over, we may all get back to our usual business. Do write to Lavinia, with her father so busy with wills, etc. she's likely at loose ends. She'd so like to have a family such as yours, dear cousin._

_Sincerely,_

_Cousin Matthew_

He pursed his lips as he read what he'd written and thought better not to say he'd given those socks away. He'd made discreet inquiries of the Corporals, and found who were the five men worst off in the company with trenchfoot. Someone came up with the amazing idea that keeping the feet warm and dry was the cure. So he'd managed to segregate each soldier and hand off two pair of socks to each one. "My mother sent them," he'd lied, not about to say that his third cousin, once removed, and a former fiancé was sending him socks. That would sound too strange to his soldiers, most who were working people.

The parcel was wonderful and he did keep some of the coffee. The rest went to his men and the cigars William had traded with Shropeshire's medical officer for a fine wool blanket. He'd used it the last two weeks and it was amazingly warm.

Matthew had been taken to the convalescent hospital set up in Downton his last time home and as he entered the room, the smell of gangrene, dried blood, and bedpans hit him full in the face. The sheets on the beds were all clean, it was well lit, but some of the soldiers were very shot up. It wasn't the sight; it was the smell that almost made him collapse, right there. He had closed his eyes for a moment, and if they'd thrown in unwashed bodies and mud, it would have been like the dressing station on the front line. Yet the clean uniforms and caring professional system of the nurses and doctors was amazing. So good of the Grantham's to allow use of the house.

So unlike the horrible muck of the regimental dressing station. He'd had to go there to confirm the recovery of Adams, Parker and Hoskins. They'd been caught in the open helping two gas victims of the last attack – the gassing had hit the Irish on their left flank hard – ten killed, twenty injured. Only a shift in the wind had saved his unit. The helper party of poor sods had been far behind the lines, when a monster shell went to the Rear and got them. Matthew had looked at the bodies and confirmed they were his. Only by piecing together their torn identity discs had they sorted them out. It wasn't the first men he'd lost or the last – just some of many. That reminded him that he ought to write notes to their families to express his condolences for their loss.

His mother had certainly twisted a number of arms to set up the hospital at Downton Abbey and given her medical knowledge and sense of righteous purpose, he'd not have wanted to be anyone in her way. So, in spite of obstacles, she'd persevered. Thank god that Lady Grantham had donated the monies and the space, but he'd felt that Lady Sybil must have had a hand in it too. Sybil, she was a wonder, so unlike Edith, who seemed like a lost soul, or Mary. Those poor blokes in hospital deserved the best that England could give them and his mother said that Sybil always took the worst cases. He'd observed the tender care given to the men there and he felt embarrassed to be in that room, in uniform, both fit and on his feet - and that he still had two good feet.

When he'd met Lavinia in London, just before he shipped out the first time, and again on his return, the ache of the personal rejection of Mary had hit home. But there was Lavinia, only child of a solicitor, her mother dead, hosting a party for the officers off to France. She was quiet, shy, with reddish-blonde hair, amazing eyes and so sweet. She didn't have a proud bone in her body, unlike Cousin Mary, who he'd come to believe purposely did things to drive people away.

Lavinia seemed to stay in the moment with no intrigue about her. Those first months in France as a new Lieutenant he'd seen things that convinced him that life was short. If there was any chance of getting through this mess it was to have an anchor. So upon his return he'd gone to Lavinia and asked her to marry. She'd said yes, and joyously ran to her father's house office with him in tow to make the announcement. Lavinia was his anchor, and if the rope did not break or stretch, it was time to hold to her.

William Mason sat a few feet away, folded his letter and slid it into an unsealed envelope; the censors would seal it after processing. The boy sighed. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"When you're done with your writing, I'll take the letters in the morning to the regimental postman sir."

Matthew looked the letter over again. Yes he was done. He rose, folded the letter and handed it to William. Mason had seen every order and letter that came and went – there were no secrets between them. Matthew knew now how Grantham felt about Bates. They had seen and things in the Boer War that they didn't have to explain or justify. Bates was fiercely loyal to Grantham and the same was obvious from the Lord as well. Matthew knew now how that was forged – in blood, and sweat, and tears.

Matthew gave the letter to his batman. "Thank you, William."

"My pleasure sir."

Matthew looked at the boy. Was this how they would be for years and years to come? Standing closer than close because of what they experienced here? "Very good."

**Author's notes:**

**Archie – Artillery or anti-aircraft (ack-ack) battery fire**

**Small box respirator – First practical gas mask used by the British forces, being a box on the chest that held neutralizing chemicals, attached to a chemical impregnated canvas bag with goggles over the face. Effective against mustard and chlorine gas, though mustard would cause burns on any exposed or damp skin, even under clothing.**

**Trenchfoot – A debilitating condition of the feet, caused by wet feet in cold conditions. It caused swelling, pain, and lameness. WWI veterans forty years later still complained of numb and chilblained feet in winter, so the effects could be lasting. Trenchfoot is a problem for any soldier in wet and cold conditions.**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 - Fire

William Mason was stepping gingerly through the muck at the bottom of the trench, where the sump was clogged. The rain all day had kept them mostly undercover, other than the sentries. He sighed at the mess that was creeping up his leggings, as muddy water saturated his shoes and trousers. It would be the devil to get warm tonight, as the wind had picked up. He pulled his coat up about his ears but was shaking with cold all the same. The Captain had sent him to the unit on their right flank to carry a message. It was only about a hundred yards away as the crow might fly, but the zigzags and the lateral defense trenches turned a few minutes into an hour and it was now long past midnight.

He was nearby one of their listening posts built on the fire-step, a ledge dug along the front of the trench, allowing the soldiers to stand on it, raising their helmets just above the rim of their position. It was two feet above the bottom of the trench in this section, and he saw Corporal Euler crouching up there along with two soldiers. The three were leaning forward, their heads well above the top of the trench. Either they'd gone mad, or… William stepped up and whispered, "Something amiss, Corp?"

The Corporal didn't turn his head, but kept peering into the darkness of No Man's Land. "Shush," he muttered back.

William squinted but couldn't see anything, just dimness receding into pitch blackness. It was like looking into a well at midnight. He didn't see much beyond the first few yards; just gray rolling mounds, strands of rusty barbwire, a broken rifle, smashed boards, and a lost helmet. He shielded his eyes and could then make out a few tin cans thrown to the rats out there.

Timothy Euler nudged Mason. "Get the Captain," came his voice so quietly it was almost silent.

William slid down the fire-step and rapidly splashed to the command dugout. He pulled the canvas back. "Captain! Captain Crawley! Come quick!" he hissed.

Matthew followed his batman into the mire, and William led him to where the Corporal was standing, peering into the battlefield.

Euler didn't move as the Captain joined him. William started to step up, when the Captain motioned him to stay down.

William unslung his rife and with cold, shaking hands worked the bolt to put a round into the chamber, just as the Captain knelt down took William by the collar and whispered. "Get the men, quietly. Fix bayonets."

Mason splashed one way, while the Corporal splashed the other, as Matthew pulled out his Webley service revolver, flipped off the safety, took a firm grip and braced his right wrist with his left hand, the weapon held straight out in front of him at the unseen enemy. He wasn't certain if they were out there but you couldn't be too careful.

He didn't know _what_ he felt, as he certainly could not _see_ anything. Even if the Hun wasn't right there, or four hundred yards away, they still made him wary. No, that wasn't quite right. Wary was _not_ the right word. He settled his helmet onto his head, gripped his pistol more firmly, and waited for his men to arrive, while his mouth went dry. Nothing was moving; nothing he could see. But there was something…

His men took positions along the trench quickly, each one holding his rifle erect, bayonets fixed in place. They leveled their rifles on the rim of the trench, and braced themselves in firing position.

Sergeant Cropper stood at Matthew's shoulder. "Cap'n."

"There's something there," he answered softly.

"Whatcha' see, sir?"

"Nothing."

"Ah. Damn." Cropped aimed his Enfield and spat tobacco spittle.

"Flare," Matthew whispered to the soldier on his left as he sensed William Mason standing next to him, his aide's rifle aimed past Matthew's ear.

The soldier sighed, but took the Very pistol in shaky hands, snapped an illumination round into it, and quietly snapped the breech closed. "Ready, Captain Crawley, sir."

"Right." Matthew gulped then whispered the word he dreaded. "Fire."

The soldier, his name was Hooper, held the flare gun at an angle towards the battlefield, and pulled the trigger. The flare shot skyward, propelled by the lofting charge in a shower of sparks, where the magnesium powder of the flare ignited under a tiny silk parachute and began to drift downward. The actinic white light shone as a tiny sun above the chewed and destroyed farmland.

Matthew squinted as the flare was fired to maintain his night vision. He snapped his eyes open when he heard a pop as the charge ignited high overhead. His eyes and brain worked to make sense of what he saw; a gray rolling landscape, half lit and half in shadow. A few shattered trees poked up from the mess below, broken limbs hanging pitifully above tangles of barb wire, a destroyed artillery caisson, a wasteland of death and destruction. And in the tangle of images, rounded shapes, gaunt trees, the tilted caisson, there were at least a hundred German troops couching in the mud, rifles and bayonets at the ready.

Adrenaline shot to Matthew's brain, his eyes wide, and his mouth already screaming. "Fire!" as the muscles of his right forearm contracted, tightening his index finger, pulling the Webley's thick trigger and launching a massive lead slug into the fight.

Rifle fire erupted from his troops at the targets; living men just like them, only wearing the wrong uniform – German field gray and not Tommy olive drab.

Then their machine guns opened up, spraying hundreds of rounds into the massed German soldiers as the first potato mashers were thrown towards the British line.

**Author's notes:**

**Fire-step – A ledge dug into many trenches as a firing position. It was elevated above the trench floor to elevate soldier's heads and shoulders above the rim of front line trenches. **

**Webley – A British six shot revolver, which was extremely reliable even in the filth of the trenches. It fired a .455 caliber slug with tremendous stopping force and by opening the top from frame could eject all six cartridge cases at once, facilitating reloading.**

**Potato mashers – The German 'stick' grenade was an explosive grenade, a steel canister filled with TNT and attached to a wooden handle making it easier to throw further than the British 'egg' grenade.**

**Caisson – A wheeled carriage, part of the artillery standard kit, which carried ammunition, sighting and aiming equipment and tools to maintain the weapon. The word caisson was used prominently in a US Army song – the Artillery Song (below):**

**Artillery (Caisson) Song Lyrics; Words & Music by Edmund Gruber (1908), adapted by Robert Lloyd (1918), Source: U.S. Army Song Book, 1918**

**Over hill, over dale,  
>As we hit the dusty trail,<br>And the caissons go rolling along.  
>In and out, hear them shout,<br>Counter march and right about,  
>And the caissons go rolling along.<strong>

**Then it's hi! hi! hee!  
>In the field artillery,<br>Shout out your numbers loud and strong,  
>For where e'er you go,<br>You will always know,  
>That the caissons go rolling along.<strong>

**In the storm in the night,  
>Action left or action right,<br>See the caissons go rolling along.  
>Limber front, limber rear,<br>Prepare to mount your cannoneer  
>And the caissons go rolling along.<strong>

**Then it's hi! hi! hee!  
>In the field artillery,<br>Shout out your numbers loud and strong,  
>For where e'er you go,<br>You will always know,  
>That the caissons go rolling along.<br>(Keep them rolling)  
>And those caissons go rolling along.<strong>

**Then it's long, long. Batt'ry Halt!**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 – Visit

"Captain Crawley! Sir! Sir! Wake up!" William shook Matthews's shoulder and the young officer tried to brush his hand away. "Blast it, Matthew! Wake up!"

The words slowly seeped into Matthews's head but his dream continued. He was having dinner with Lady Mary, Cousin Mary, fiancé Mary; all of them jumbled together. She was playfully teasing him about being a lawyer and how Violet, the Duchess, had asked him on their first meeting 'what's a weekend?'

"Poor granny," Mary went on. "Poor thing has no idea that most people work for a living. Like you do, Matthew. So how's business going?"

Matthew smiled at her since she was in a good mood and so was he. "Business is fine, plenty of things to do… to shoot."

"Oh?" she asked. "I thought you weren't that keen on shooting?"

"Captain Crawley!" shouted a voice. "Come on now, sir! You have to wake up!"

Matthew pried gummy eyes open to find William Mason bending over him and shaking his arm. _Damn_. He'd been dreaming about Mary again, and not Lavinia. He threw off the blanket the boy had draped over his shoulders and sat up, where he'd been face down on the map table. "What is it?" he mumbled.

"Sir. A runner came in! The Colonel is on his way to see you sir! Should be here in about ten minutes!"

Matthew sprang up, running a hand over his tired face and felt whiskers prickle his fingers. He'd not shaved since Tuesday, and now it was, what? - Thursday. By the gray light filtering into the dugout it was morning; early. "I'd better shave."

"Yes, sir. And I've got a clean shirt and jacket, just laid out." He pushed Matthew towards the stove. "There's warm water in the kettle there."

Matthew grabbed the kettle, poured what there was of it into a metal bowl, and washed his cheeks, as William brought over his shaving brush and razor.

"I can shave you if you want, sir."

"No thank you. Any tea?"

"A bit weak, but it's hot. Plenty of sugar for once, sir."

"Right." Matthew brushed his face with soap after working up a lather dropped the brush back into the soap mug, and with his straight razor, scraped off his patchy whiskers. He peered at his tired eyes in the small metal shaving mirror that his mother had sent him. His dreams were _disturbing_, once again. He shook his head to clear it.

"Better hurry, sir," urged his aide.

Luckily he didn't have a lot of facial hair, unlike some of the men. In a few strokes he shaved off most of what was there, nicking his Adam's apple at the end. "Damn."

William swept into action. He handed Matthew a damp cloth to wipe his cheeks of the soap residue and blot at the few drops of blood, then peeled the former solicitor out of his jacket, tie, shirt and vest.

Matthew shivered in the morning air, but in a few minutes was fully dressed, after William tied his tie for him and quickly brushed his brown hair. Matthew chugged down the tea and felt almost like a new man, even if he got almost no sleep.

"There, sir," the boy said as the curtain was parted and Colonel Collins swept in, accompanied by another officer.

Matthew snapped to a salute next to William, who magically had captured the tea mug and held it behind him.

"Crawley! Good to see you, boy!" the Colonel beamed. Colonel Tommy Collins was responsible for this sector of the front line, having as many as five companies reporting to him, as the units were shuffled in and out from the Rear to the Front and back. He returned their twin salutes jauntily. "At ease!"

Collins was no rear echelon slogger, Matthew knew, as he'd lost two fingers in a vicious fight half way through the Somme, and still walked with a slight limp from a shell that blew him off his feet and deafened one ear. Matthew respected him, more than he could say. One of the few officers he could say that about.

"This is my new aide, Captain Mitchell," Collins indicated the other officer. "Just from home; first time over here. Thought he should see what we're about."

"Good to meet you, Captain," Matthew replied as they shook hands. "My batman, Private Mason."

The Colonel nodded to the Private. "Son."

William stayed straight backed. "I'll get you gentlemen tea, sir." He went to the stove and from some secret store produced a can of tea.

The Colonel stopped the boy with a wave. "No thank, you. Crawley, I didn't come up here to have a lovely sit down and a cuppa! I heard about the flap up here last night."

"Yes, sir," Matthew said grimly. "The Germans tried to spring a little surprise on us."

"A little surprise? That's not what I heard, Crawley! Damn it man! I heard you routed a whole company, round about midnight!"

Matthew's head swam, as mention of the firefight nauseated the tea in his stomach. "Well, we stopped them. I wouldn't say rout…"

"Lt. Finlay over on your left told me as I came through he thought it was Guy Fawkes Night there were such a fireworks! Let's take a look, shall we?" The Colonel stepped to the doorway. "Nasty odor in here."

Odor? Yes, it did smell in all the dugouts but Matthew was used to it. "Yes, sir,"

"Well come on, Crawley. I want to see this victory of yours. I spend far too much time looking at maps and fighting with Supply. Let me see some of the war!"

Matthew motioned to Mason, who scooped up his helmet, slung his Enfield and accompanied the party out of the dugout.

000

"Gawd!" muttered the new Captain. "Look! Just look!"

Mitchell was it? Yes Mitchell. The new man's eyes bugged out at the sight not twenty yards away and also right at the rim of their position dug into France's lovely soil. Matthew looked with disdain at the new staff officer's pressed uniform, new pistol belt of polished leather, and boots muddy but unscuffed. He met Mason's eyes as his batman was also spying on the officer. They exchanged glances, one look speaking entire volumes.

Colonel Collins cleared his throat. "How many, do you think?"

Matthew groaned. "I'd guess about thirty got away and we captured twelve, all those were wounded but one. The rest…" his voice faltered. "Well, you can see."

There were at least forty bodies sprawled in disorganized death in front of their lines. The bodies were piled like dead codfish fallen from a fisherman's net. Men lay there in their last agonized positions, bodies black with congealed blood in the morning light. Some held their weapons in a last gesture of fighting back. One to the side was slumped as if in prayer, his hands held out in front, a horrible supplicant to the god of war, his coal scuttle helmet still on his head. Rifles, cast off packs and helmets were macabre accessories to the scene, along with a spilled first aid kit and torn bandages.

The Colonel sniffed and wrinkled his nose. "Machine guns?"

"Yes, sir. Stopped them." Matthew sniffed. "And a couple of their grenades were thrown back too, plus a few of our own."

"Potato mashers - more effective than our eggs." The Colonel waved at flies that were already gathered on the dead. "Casualties?"

"Two. Both wounded. One slight bullet in the arm, another got a hand cut when one of _them_ tried to bayonet him. Only one to get into our position. Strangely that's our only unwounded prisoner, as a rifle butt to the head knocked him down and out. Saved his life I suppose."

Collins clapped Matthew on the back. "Fine work, Crawley! See Mitchell? This is how it's done! How did you know?"

Matthew looked hard the Colonel. "Rats sir. Something scared the rats away. I didn't hear them squeaking and rustling out there."

"I see," nodded the Colonel. "Fine work all around."

"Thank you, sir." Matthew kept his mouth clamped tightly, as being thanked for killing dozens of men rankled, but he winced when he saw Captain Mitchell start to crack up.

"Oh my God. Oh my dear God!" the man yelled as he dropped to his knees and started to gag followed by vomit.

The Colonel patted the man's shoulder, stepping delicately aside as vomit splashed to the dirt. "You'll get used to it, Mitchell."

Crawley looked down at the new officer kneeling in his own vomit, now crying pitiably. "God had nothing to do with, Mitchell," he whispered. He grabbed Mitchell and hauled him erect. "Better now?"

Mitchell looked at Matthew with distressed eyes. "How can you stand it?" He wiped slobber from his chin onto his new uniform jacket. "How _can_ you stand it?" he repeated in a rising tone.

Matthew had no rational answer, so he said nothing.

William ducked just then, as they all did, as a sniper's bullet rocketed in and kicked up dirt.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 – Need

The Colonel left and Matthew got the men started on removing the ghastly pile in front of their position (using grappling hooks and ropes so as not to expose themselves to enemy fire).

"Gonna' be a bitch of job, sir. Pardon my words." Sergeant Cropper complained.

"I know. But we can't leave them there. Disease. Besides they block our field of fire. Needs to be done." Matthew explained. "The Colonel will send stretchers up with the Medical Corps to help."

Cropper sighed. "Righto. Yes, sir," he answered with disgust.

"By the way, Sergeant, it was Euler that figured out something was off last night. See he gets the word that the Colonel was very pleased. And take him off captain-of-the-guard duty for this evening. I'll take that bit myself. He deserves a rest."

"Very good, sir. I'll tell him myself."

Matthew turned to go, scraping at his boots with a flat stick in a vain attempt to remove Captain Mitchell's vomit. "Damn it," he muttered.

Cropper winked at him. "Do you think that officer will cut the mustard?"

That made Matthew stop and he answered the grizzled non-com. "We were all green once, you know. Carry on."

Matthew slogged alone the line, with William in tow, telling the men that the Colonel was pleased at the outcome. Generally the men smiled, even though in a few minutes they'd be carrying dead bodies to the rear through the narrow and crowded trenches. All the same, he needed to tell his men they'd done a good job. That he needed them - wanted to tell them - that without them, he was nothing.

That made him recall the day before he had to leave the village to go up to Coventry with the General. Lavinia was very sad as it was a day sooner, but she did not want him to go; not lose one minute of their time together. Still, he knew, better Coventry than the Front.

He'd found Lady Mary in the garden, speaking to Lavinia, who left suddenly, and he could see her eyes wet with tears. She went to the house before he could say a thing, leaving him facing the woman who he once thought he'd marry.

He told Mary about the change of plans and the pleasant expression on her face looked strained. There was something about the muscles about her eyes which told him she'd not come to talk about dinner that evening at Downton.

"Still, you want me then?" he asked. "For dinner."

She smiled with a hint of yearning in her voice. "I want you. Very much."

"Oh." Thinking back to that moment, he should have said something else. But she smiled her forced smile, her face paler than when he first saw her today, and she left.

He went in to the house where he and Lavinia had lunch. Molesley had served them a lovely turbot, with boiled potatoes and sprouts, after a light salad.

Lavinia paused when they were almost through eating. "I'm sorry that Mary couldn't stay, Matthew."

"Oh?" He had been wool gathering, thinking about the General, going back to work, Lavinia, and Mary somehow all at once.

"Yes," she smiled. "I do so want us to be friends. I mean…" her lip quivered. "If anything happened… to you…" she dropped her fork and dabbed at her face with her linen napkin.

Matthew touched her arm. "Lavinia, I'll be fine." He didn't feel that way, but he said it all the same.

"But if it did," she sniffled. "I'd want, no need, to be near these people. I mean they are your family."

"They would take care… help out…" he stuttered. "I mean…" He stopped speaking and looked away for a moment. "Don't you worry about that! Come on." He dried her tears with his handkerchief and rubbed her back, followed by a kiss.

By the time lunch was over, Lavinia felt better, and she read to him from a marvelous book about adventures in the American West. That made him think of Lord and Lady Grantham. Her Ladyship was an American, which made Mary half American. Was that why he still found her both fascinating and infuriating? No, he thought, infuriating was not the proper word. His feeling towards Mary was one of regret, sweet regret. If he'd not lost his temper, and if she'd not responded back then – when they broke up. But he felt so pressured to perform his duties to the manor, almost like being brought in for stud. It was all so damn scripted and it annoyed him to no end. So that was that.

Was that how Cora felt when she married Robert Crawley, his Lordship? They certainly seemed to get on very well and they had produced three daughters. Surely they must have fallen in love at some point.

Looking at Lavinia as she read about wild Indians chasing a stagecoach, he smiled and laughed along with her at all the right parts, he wondered if he did love Lavinia Swire? Or was there someone else _he_ needed?

Standing in their line, watching his men manhandle the dead enemy, his face was one of stoic patience, but he replayed that sentence of Mary in the garden. "I want you. Very much," she said so Matthew pondered. That's what he heard her say, but what did she really mean?


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 – Gossip

" 'William, this is the military. Logic has nothing to do with it,' said Captain Crawley and that started our adventure to _Neverland_. The Captain, four soldiers, and I, went off to well, how to say it? We were supposed to sneak around, get into the enemy's rear area, then report back on what we found. We found Germans, plenty of Germans. In one hectic thirty minute period we found soldiers, artillery, more soldiers, a vast muddy bog, more artillery, and then more soldiers. By then we'd lost the other four sods, I heard later they got back all right. But the Captain and I were poor substitutes for Peter Pan and Wendy amongst the pirates," William started the tale. He was so glad to be back at Downton on leave, if only for a little while.

Daisy ran her hands nervously on her apron, as she sat next to him in the servant's hall of Downton Abbey. "Weren't you scared?"

Anna Smith touched her arm. "Daisy! Don't put poor William on the spot like that!"

"No, it's all right. If I was…" he started to say, as Thomas Barrow waltzed in reeking of cigarette smoke, with Mrs. O'Brien by his side, like evil twins.

Thomas leaned over Daisy's shoulder, and set his claw-like left hand, gloved as always, on her shoulder and she jumped. "Daisy, you have _no_ idea," he hissed into her ear.

"What you mean, then?" the girl asked again. "No need to be mysterious, is there? So was you? Scared?"

Mrs. Patmore stood to the side and looked at the huddle around the table. She shook her head hearing that _stupid_ _girl_ dig into William like that. Of course they was scared! Her nephew Archie would have been scared! No sane mad would not be scared, she thought. Had to be scared to do what he'd done. She sniffed a little at the memory of the terrible secret his Lordship told her. Shot for cowardice, he'd said and the look on his Lordship's face was so sorrowful. He'd never met her nephew Archie Philpots, but the way Lord Grantham acted as she got the bad news was like he'd lost one of his own.

William Mason didn't like Thomas Barrow, and that was putting it charitably. Thomas had lorded, teased and bullied William at everything possible moment during his years in service as a footman at the Abbey. Now Thomas was an 'Acting Sergeant' fair running the convalescent hospital set up in the house, but the way that he spoke to Daisy, William wondered if he was on his side, for this just rare moment.

"Neverland?" scoffed Thomas. "Wasn't that the place where that boy could fly? Peter Pan? I wish like hell I'd have been able to fly. I'd have flown straight back home."

"Don't curse, Thomas," said Mrs. O'Brien, her face sourer than usual. "Not in the house."

Thomas turned his ferret face to her. "You don't know nothing about it, do you?" he sneered. He took a deep breath but the look on O'Brien's face stopped him. If he started to say how bad it was, there would be no stopping the words, he thought to himself. Not a bit would be held back; nothing. He tried to make a fist with his left hand. He felt the fingers move a tiny amount, and pain lanced up his arm. He winced. "You know nothing."

Mrs. O'Brien faced him unafraid. "Oh, I know I a lot. I know what the outcome was for poor Mr. Lang." She paused, looked away then back at Thomas. "And all the rest too." Her brother was shell shocked. The times he did speak of the things he saw were horrible. She still got nightmares from one in particular – the one where his mates were blown up and her brother lay there in a shell hole covered in their guts. Her brother had lived through that bombardment, but he was found unfit for duty. She tightened her mouth. "You watch yourself, Thomas."

Mrs. Hughes came in speaking to one of the maids. "Well, girl, you'll just have to rub harder to get those stains out. Try again." Her Scottish voice was emphatic, yet not unkind. She rapidly sized up the tense situation and tried to defuse it. "Having a little chat with our two soldier boys?" she asked.

Daisy looked at her boss's boss. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes. I was just asking William what it was like? When you was lost, I mean."

"Oh," William said and breathed a small sigh of relief. "I was cold, and hungry, tired as well. But we weren't lost. Not me and Captain Crawley. We knew right where we were, the both of us."

Thomas laughed. "Yeah, old son. Surrounded."

"Yes, we were. But we knew right where we were," William said proudly.

"Well thank God you got back alive," threw in Mrs. Hughes. "Now Daisy, hadn't you and the other girls get to work on that mountain of glasses from the refreshments from the talent show? They won't wash themselves, you know."

"Yes, Mrs. Hughes. Sorry." Daisy stood and she and the two other scullery maids scurried to the sinks.

William stood. "Mrs. Hughes, thank you for letting me come downstairs. Let's me visit a bit on leave."

"Oh, William, you're always welcome. You know that." Mrs. Hughes laughed. "Why you're part of the family – our downstairs family." She crossed the room and patted his arm. "I'm so glad you got home safe."

"Yes, ma'am." The tall blonde boy squared his back. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll go ask those girls if they want some help drying dishes and such. I've become quite a dab hand at cleaning dishes in the army."

Thomas sneered. "Oh, he's learning a trade, too!"

Mrs. O'Brien jabbed him. "You can be _so_ nasty," she whispered. "I should slap your face. Give the boy a chance. He's home on leave – from the Front."

Anna stood up only too glad to be away from this fray. "And I'd best go up to help Lady Mary and Edith."

"Naw," said Thomas sarcastically. "She's hanging about with his Lordship and the Captain. She's shining so bright I'd think they switch off all the lights and the house would be lit like day by the glow."

Mrs. Hughes gave a frosty stare to Thomas. She knew what a snake the man was. She knew, along with Mr. Carson, of the strange incidents of the missing snuff-box and the wine. She crossed her arms. "Don't you have something to do? Some hospital things?"

"Yes. I do. After I have another smoke." Thomas looked about the room imperiously. "You can all stay down here like good little mice." He left the room and the temperature in the room rose by ten degrees.

Mrs. Patmore said, "The cheek of that man!"

Mrs. Hughes nodded. "Yes," she sighed. "We'd best get all things cleared away. It's another early morning, as always, tomorrow."

The maids rose to work on their things, now that the party had wound down upstairs. When all others were gone, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore, and Mrs. O'Brien stood still for a moment.

Mrs. Patmore laughed. "What Thomas said about Lady Mary, was that true?

Mrs. Hughes was startled. "Oh? What did he say?"

Sarah O'Brien spoke in a flat tone. "That Lady Mary was practically glowing when Matthew and William came into the library when she and Edith were singing." She sniffed. "Still is apparently."

"That's none of our business," said Elsie Hughes. "None at all. And we should _not_ gossip."

"I'm not gossiping. Just saying," she smiled grimly, "that for a girl who threw him over and now has been hanging about with that Sir Richard…" she cleared her throat. "It doesn't make sense, is all."

Elsie looked very hard at O'Brien. "Mrs. Patmore, don't you think you should be making sure that Daisy, the maids, and William, are indeed washing up?"

Patmore nodded her red curls. "Indeed. Goodnight then."

Elsie waited until Mrs. Patmore was well away before, she spoke. " Sarah! You can't go on saying things like that! We do not spread gossip in the house!"

"Oh?" said O'Brien archly. "It's not gossip." Then she swept away.

"It's all this talk about the war. It gets everyone upset," she said aloud to the empty room and then Elsie Hughes clutched her hands in uneasiness.

**Author's notes:**

**Neverland – The fictional playground of Peter Pan in the theatre play 'Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up' by J. M. Barrie, first staged in 1904. Later novelized in the 1910s.**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 – Boy and Girl

Matthew had a twinkle in his eye as he looked at Lady Mary. "As long as he makes you happy. If he doesn't, he'll have me to answer to." He smiled though there was a small pang to do so.

Mary smiled back in that nearly bland way of hers, then let he eyes get involved making the smile less grim. "Oh, he will. He does." The words came from her mouth but she hated to say them.

"I'm glad you found someone then. Like I have." He ducked his eyes. "Wartime makes it all the sweeter, doesn't it? Sir Richard Carlisle. Newspapers."

"Yes," she said. "Newspapers… that sort of thing."

"A man of business."

Mary smiled. "Yes."

Their conversation was cut short as his Lordship came over and put his arm about Matthew. "Mary? Let's not keep Matthew too late. He did say that he was running up to London tomorrow to see Lavinia. Taking the early train?"

Matthew smiled at the man who would have been his father-in-law. "Noon, I think." He took a quick glance at Cousin Mary. "I should be getting on to the village."

"I'll have Branson run you down." Robert smiled hugely at Matthew. "I can't tell you how delighted I am - we all are - that you came for a visit! Shame you can't stay longer. Shame your mother isn't here."

Matthew looked at Mary in her almost casual clothing. "I agree, your Lordship." The shiny silk blouse made her all the more radiant in his eyes. Lavinia tended to wear elaborate dresses, and they did suit her. But seeing Mary dressed in the simple blouse and skirt, no jewelry, her hair pinned up, made her seem more approachable, and she seemed far more relaxed then his last visit. He looked from Mary to her father and back again. "I should be home soon."

"Oh?" came from Mary. That wasn't what she wanted to say. When she and Edith had been muddling through the song, and the library door opened, she felt her heart would stop. It did skip a beat or two, she was sure of that did happen when she saw through the standing officers at the back a familiar man with William by his side in their Army uniforms.

And when Matthew walked down the aisle, stood by her and finished the song, as a proper duet… the words rang through her head.

_If you were the only girl in the world  
>and I were the only boy<br>_

_There would be such wonderful things to do  
>If you were the only girl in the world<br>and I were the only boy._

She choked back what she wanted to say, as Matthew spoke again to her father.

"The Germans are suffering, far more than we. And there are rumors that the Americans will send over more men." Matthew stopped. "I hear they've made a huge difference already. Sorry, didn't mean to bring up the war."

"Yes," said Mary her eyes brimmed with tears. "It has to end soon, then."

Matthew made the smallest of shrugs. "I hope so."

Robert laughed. "Well…" he yawned, "excuse me. It _is_ late. Cora's already gone up. I'll leave you young people to say goodbye then." He dropped his arm and took Matthew's right hand in a firm grip. "Glad that you could drop in, and do be careful, my boy. Son."

Matthew clung to Robert's hand in what he hoped was fond firmness, and not the clutching of a drowning man. This house, this place, felt like home now and it would be his home someday; his and Lavinia's. Their children would run down these halls and across the lawns.

But when he looked at Marty, thinking of Lavinia did not feel right - not here, not in _this_ house. It should be otherwise… and his dreams, always there, not the ones of the war, but of Mary flashed in his head. It had all gone so wrong.

His Lordship clapped him on the back. "We pray that this awful thing is soon over and done and that you return safely." Robert strode away, a man seemingly at ease with his place and station.

Mary had such an expectant look to her face and that made him cautious again. _Be careful, Matthew _came the idea. "I haven't sung for so long… hope I didn't ruin it."

"No, we needed a man… that is, a male voice. And there you were!" Her eyes smiled, but her heart broke inside. She didn't want Carlisle, but she'd take him, if nothing better was available. He was hard, rich, handsome, a business man, but his proposal such as it was, was more of a business contract. But Matthew, she sighed inside; Matthew… was most assuredly _not_ available. Not anymore and that was _her_ fault. She knew that now and it ate like cancer on her spirit.

He grinned. "You have no idea how much I miss this _over there_. It has to be over soon. I'll say goodnight."

"Yes," she smiled one last time. "Goodnight Matthew." Mary chastely hugged her cousin farewell and brushed his cheek with her lips. "Be safe."

"I'll do my best," Matthew said, and with a regretful expression looked about the hall, then turned and walked away.

Mary watched his receding back, until he was handed his coat by one of the maids, he pulled it on, and walked to the front door. She wanted to scream out one word - STOP! But that battle ground was already lost to her and she knew it.

The door opened, he went through, she heard the motor approach on the drive, the door closed behind him, and he was gone.

_Sometimes when I feel low  
>and things look blue<br>I wish a boy I had... say one like you.  
>Someone within my heart to build a throne<br>Someone who'd never part, to call my own_

_If you were the only girl in the world  
>and I were the only boy<br>Nothing else would matter in the world today  
>We could go on loving in the same old way<em>

_A garden of Eden just made for two  
>With nothing to mar our joy<br>I would say such wonderful things to you  
>There would be such wonderful things to do<br>If you were the only girl in the world  
>and I were the only boy.<em>

**Author's notes:**

**The song – Music was written by Clifford Grey and words by Nat D. Ayer in 1916. It premiered in a musical - _The Bing Boys Are Here_ . Sequels came soon: _The Bing Boys Are There_ (1917) and _The Bing Boys On Broadway_ (1918). Vintage audio clips of this song can be found on the Internet.**

**American AEF – Allied Expeditionary Force did not enter combat until October 1917, having arrived in Europe in June of that year commanded by General John 'Black Jack' Pershing.**


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 – Love

"So, Private Mason, what can I do for you? Getting on?" asked the padre, Mr. Wilson.

William looked sheepishly at the chaplain. "Padre… I mean sir… been wanting to talk to you."

A shell screamed overhead and it fell some distance to the Rear, so neither of the men ducked.

The padre nodded his head slowly as he inspected the young private. Young, he mused, they were all young, although by this January in the year of our Lord 1918 if they'd been on the line as long as this lad, they were all battled hardened men. "Go on, son."

William looked to the side then back at him. "A bit embarrassed to say this sir."

"Yes, but tell me anyway."

He yawned. "Sorry, sir. Didn't get much sleep last night. All…" he pointed to the sky, "that goin' on," as another flight of shells went overhead, this time towards the Hun's lines.

The chaplain had become so used to the sound of shellfire, he almost didn't notice, but partly that was due to partial deafness. "Sorry, lad, you'll have to speak up."

The boy licked his lips. "Sir. The men talk, you know."

"Yes. Yes, but what's bothering you?"

William stretched his arms and rolled his neck. "About women, sir."

The padre smiled. He'd been married for twenty years, had got into the tail end of the Boer war, and then been demobilized. He'd volunteered when things went to Hades in 1914, and been over here for two years. This boy was almost a child, that must be it. "Men talk about women all the time, son."

"Sir, not that I'm trying to dispute what you're sayin'… but I don't like the way some of the men talk about their wives, or girlfriends, or… you know… disrespectful."

"How old are you Mason?"

"Twenty this year, padre."

"Ah." The chaplain nodded. "Look, boy…"

"I mean, they do go on about… things…"

Mr. Wilson held up his hand. "You have a girlfriend, back home?"

"Right. Yes sir. We're to be married after the war is over."

You're engaged?"

"We have an understanding. I couldn't buy a proper ring. But I did ask her and we're engaged." William had reflected on that day, when he'd last been at Downton Abbey. Mrs. Patmore seemed more than interested that day, always about where Daisy was. And he had his suspicions that the cook had made very sure that Daisy was made available so he could talk to her. When he asked Daisy Robinson to marry, she'd not said yes, as Mrs. Patmore had practically forced the girl into his arms. "Daisy Robinson is her name."

"And she is?"

"A scullery maid at the Abbey; Downton Abbey, sir. And I'm the second footman, as well."

The padre smiled. "I've known Lord Grantham for years and her Ladyship as well. I had no idea that you worked for them! Good for you. They are capital people."

"Yes, they are."

The padre slapped his knee. "Years back, before the war, I went for a visit there, with my wife. There's a good chance your Daisy was working there and you as well. Imagine that? What are the chances?"

William twisted his scarf in his hands, sitting in one of the dugouts. More shells flew over, going each way, and the earth shook with those coming in. "You never know sir."

The padre tapped the table. "So what's the matter, son?"

William squirmed. "The men… some of the men… well they go on about all the randy things they do with their girls. And sir… makes me sick at times."

The padre smiled. "Oh, that's just talk. I'd not it let it bother you. Soldiers, son. They brag, they make up things. I'll wager most of those lads have never been with a women or a girl."

William grinned a little. "I think the same as well, padre. But, what if I get through this thing, and get home, and we get married…" he paused and looked at the timber ceiling holding a good five feet of earth.

"And you don't get on. That it?"

"A fair statement, sir." The boy shook his head. "I mean once married, its forever. What if we hate each other? What if we don't really know each other. What if it's all a huge mistake?"

The earth shook, in a tremendous quake, as a barrage landed and William put on his tin hat.

The padre laughed as dirt rained down. "You really think that steel helmet will keep this roof up?"

"Better safe than sorry, padre."

This boy was so like the rest. He was worried, Wilson could tell, but weren't they all? "Listen son. I've been married longer than you've been alive. I won't say that marriage is easy. It's not, especially when all this is going on."

"I do her, padre. Indeed I do."

"Son, I can't rightly say that when you get home, this Daisy of yours will fall into your arms and pledge forever her love. For that matter, you may not get home at all, or if you do, maybe you won't want her?"

"Oh, no, sir. I love the girl. She's my girl; been writing to me every so often. I'd write more… but the war gets in the way, you know."

That made the padre laugh. "This war has gotten in the way of a lot of things." He tapped the boy on the knee. "Mason, you just keep loving that girl, no matter what, and she'll see you through this. And if it's to be, then it will. The Lord works his wonders all the time."

William nodded, looking deeply at the older man. "You think this war will be over, soon?"

The padre nodded. "Yes. It will. It will. I pray that every night." The padre was lying to the child, as he did pray for the war to end. But he'd seen the casualty reports, the men down sick, wounded, dead, gassed – some even shot themselves, or just happened to fall on their own bayonets – an accident they said. So the word _soon_ was the lie, but he kept smiling at the private all the same.

"All right, then sir. If you say so, then I believe it." The boy relaxed.

The padre folded his hands around Mason's. "Good. Good. Will you pray with me?"

William nodded.

The padre prayed aloud his words sounding through the wood and earth dugout firmly with conviction and power. "Dear Heavenly Father, maker of all things, and all peoples, and things in this world, please bless this boy, this good boy, Private William Mason. And keep him and his fellows safe and out of harm's way. Let him know that by believing in You, he will be saved in this world and the next. Let his heart be pure, his spirit strong, and his arms mighty. For in this fight, only the pure and those full of Your spirit will triumph." The padre paused. "And Lord, keep his girl, Daisy…"

"Robinson," added William.

"The maid Daisy Robinson, whom he loves dearly, healthy and faithful that she may in times to come be a helpmate to this man when he comes home from this war. In your name, and the name of your son, our Savior Jesus Christ, we pray."

"Amen." William smiled at the minister. "Thank you padre. That was lovely." He let the man's hands loose and stood. "Perhaps I'll get a chance to wait table for you on your next visit with the Grantham's."

"I'll hold you to it, son. Count on it. Send in the next one, son."

Smiling now, William exited the dugout and sent in a waiting soldier. Mr. Wilson had just enough time to wipe a tear from his eye before the next soldier sat down before him. What a waste to send such as these into this stinking war! He pounded a fist onto his leg.

"Now son," said the padre, now composed, was facing another dirty, disheveled and concerned looking soldier. "How can I help you?"

"Well, sir… it's about my old lady, she don't write near as often as she used to…"

The soldier looked to be about twenty-one if that, but he called his wife was his old-lady? The padre fixed a smile on his face, though he wanted to curse. "Tell me more."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 – Diary

_I am sorry that I have not written recently, but as you may imagine things are rarely under my control here. _

_The shelling continues, always. The enemy tries to get into our position, just as we try to get into theirs. Night and day hardly matter at times – artillery firing, gun blasts from our weapons, flares, illumination rounds from battalion howitzers, sniper fire, it all makes a mockery of the night. The night offers concealment and also makes for danger. Night patrols must be the most idiotic and fool hardy thing we do here and at the same time, the bravest. The odds of dying in No Man's Land are far higher at night than any other, as any strange noise immediately gets fired on._

_Coming here the last time, we were on a troop ship to Le Havre, dodging submarines the whole time, even got dive bombed by German planes in the harbor. That made for a madhouse on the docks as we tried to debark while everyone with a weapon fired into the air. After that madness we linked up with Army HQ, and got transport by train to the Front. You've likely noticed that the words Front and Rear I capitalize, for those words are branded into my head as such until the day I die. The words mean a place, almost like a country would be named, but this is no country that any sane person would wish to visit._

_The supply trains run nearly constantly, moving men, materiel, weapons, food, and anything else the Army needs to the Front. No, I'm wrong. We get shipped new copper kettles, yet have no food, .30-06 ammunition rather than .303 bullets as the ammo crates are mismarked and so forth. The whole thing is one giant balls up – a total cockup of extraordinary nature._

_So the trains run to a town some miles from our position. Debarking one is swallowed in the mass of men, ambulances, wounded, supply carts, lorries, animals, etc. in a giant mud wallow that once must have been a rather nice square in a nameless town. If you can keep your wits about you, you manage to find your way from the morass to transport – a lorry overladen with materiel, and beg a ride or buy it. Money is nearly useless here, unless you are stationed in the Rear, but other things have far more value. Cigarettes are the pocket change of the Army. Next up is chocolate or hard candy, then comes beer (quite uncommon) followed by whiskey or wine. _

_The French troops are constantly palming off some horrendous stuff that is barely fit for vinegar, onto the common Tommy or even Yank, for decent food or fags. The men will swill this stuff in quantity; that is until it comes back up. Perhaps it is because we are on the Continent that the awful wine seems so exotic that the troops crave it. That idea and the alcohol content being so high that they quickly get drunk. Since being drunk is an offense here, the illness associated with it, usually lasting several hours, or in extreme cases days, can be quickly explained to the medical officer as having 'trench grip' or whatever disease is in vogue._

_The lorry lurches forward by feet and inches in a slow vehicular line following a road that quickly degrades from pavement, to gravel, then dirt and mud, with planking thrown across in the really mucky spots and then when the wood runs out, it becomes a quagmire of unimaginable scope and smell. _

_The snaking trucks and carts going the other way carry wounded and the dead. Early in the war, the dead were accorded proper burials with flags, buglers, honor guards; the lot. Some troopships actually carried the dead back home, but since the ships were doing double duty (living going here – dead going back) the practice rapidly lost favor. Now they are trundled to the Rear, where mass graves, dug mostly by Colonial French Troops, take their remains. _

_At least the padres say prayers over them, before a thin covering of earth is rapidly spread and more are laid to rest. Army HQ plans, so they say, to return every Tommy to his native soil. The future shall see if that massive undertaking shall by followed. At least there is this effort to mark each grave, but for those poor souls missing in action, captured, or simply 'gone' the future of their mortal remains is unknown at this point._

_The smells associated with these activities are not to be believed. A charnel house times ten, with a rubbish tip in the heat of summer added to it, all stirred with the smells of men, both living and dead. _

_Having run out of road the lorries dump their loads and you, if you were fortunate enough to get that far by other than shank's mare, in a massive field, organized with some mad Army (both British, French, and now American) sort of order. Supplies are further broken down into loads suitable for mules or horses, or even men, and the poor beasts get no rest. If they are not starved, sickly and wretched, they soon will be, and the many of the 'mule skinners' (a curious term brought over by the Yanks) will scream at, beat, and kick their four legged helpers to no end. _

_However, I have seen the most tender expressions of assistance given to a sick or wounded animal. The men may degrade and scream at their charges, but there are some soldiers who treat the animals quite kindly. I asked one chap about it. He said that particular mule was responsible for carrying all the medical kit and supplies of their unit to the front and bring out the wounded. The animal worked tirelessly and with vigor and so many lives had been saved by those supplies that the little mule had been deemed a saint by the men. If the animal survives the war that man promised me that that little animal will never want for anything, and will be retired honorably to a grassy field, snug barn, and plenty of feed. I hope the animal makes it and the soldier._

_Now to the field of battle. The last few miles leading up the Front are a steady decline into the lower regions of Hades – the only missing detail may be a few demons standing about, leaning on pitchforks. _

_Take a lush farm, with rolling fields, a few stands of trees about, and perhaps a pond or two, and maybe a brook. Add a pretty farm house with barns and outbuildings._

_Now imagine that every bit of green vegetation has been removed leaving the earth a bare carpet. Any trees that have survived this extreme mowing, chop down and burn nine out of ten. Then take half of that remaining and blow them up with dynamite, leaving stumps and shattered trunks standing and lying haphazardly about. Take the other remaining part (one of twenty, if you are counting) and set fire to them, allowing them to burn perhaps half of their structure away, then douse the flames with a sudden downpour._

_Take more of that dynamite and with a team of men, perhaps a thousand say, have them dig holes at random across the land, and at random intervals set the dynamite charges off singly, or in groups of anywhere from three to a hundred._

_Now have that downpour I mentioned rain down, every third day stopping the water and adding either a baking heat or bone chilling freeze. Do that for months and years. Of course the holes dug by the blasts will make many holes, shallow and deep in the deep soil of France and Belgium, and with all the rain they become filled with water and mud. Yes mud. Make the mud two feet deep, with the consistency going from firm clay to a watery soup. In spots make the mud deep enough for men and animals to drown in. _

_Now take those thousand men and have them sow shards of steel, cast iron, bits of wood, and lead bullets, across the entire field and then erect torn and rusty snarls of barbwire entanglements here and there. In some spots it is so thick it should look like it has sprung from the earth; as an odd plant or weed. Add pieces of torn rags and uniforms to these barbwire forests and bushes with an artist's eye._

_Now from a dirigible or balloon at a great height, strew several hundred dead and decaying male bodies, with a dash of horse and the odd dog, pig or cow into the mix. Some of these remains will remain whole, but others should be torn apart, and be tattered rags of flesh._

_Add rats and crows, starlings, other small birds that feast on the dead men and animals. Add to the whole a mix of human excrement so vile the stench will stay in your nose for weeks. Throw down with those dead men their rifles, machine guns, grenades, gas masks and helmets, packs, canteens, bayonets, plus boots. Some of this equipment will be of British green, others German gray, or French gray and black. Scatter atop the whole thing bits of paper, board, more rags and muddy pieces that are entirely unidentifiable. For fun throw down ruined howitzers, with the dead gun crews nearby, and blasted and burned mortars, machine guns, and crushed carts and wagons with their teams dead beside._

_Now along the edges of this farm, with a thousand men on one side, and an equal number on the other, dig trenches deep enough for a man to walk in, hopefully where he may not be seen by someone a quarter mile away. The trenches are dug in straight lines, curves, and zig-zags, in several rows and columns on each side. The trenches have more holes dug in them for machine gun nests, observation posts, supply and medical pits. Have teams of miners now enter the workplace and have them tunnel into the trench sides, building rooms reinforced with wooden beams, planks, and metal sheeting. _

_Then destroy the farm buildings and house, the sheds, that dairy, and all the fences. Burn them, blow them up with shell fire, and failing that have the workman rampage through the structure breaking every window, door, and stick of furniture. Then take the crockery and smash it to pieces, but just for fun leave a few intact plates, glasses, or cups intact on the ground. _

_When this is completed, remove the workmen to a safe distance, give them a good feed, a decent nights rest, then march them up and down wearing new uniforms, each armed with a rifle and bayonet, weighed down with packs, inadequate but heavy footwear, ammunition, steel helmets, gas masks, ponchos, blankets, first aid kits, along with tins of bully beef, hardtack, tea, candy, biscuits and cigarettes. _

_Now take the mass of men, harangue them into a fever pitch telling them of God and Country, and how the honor of your race and King or Emperor must be maintained, and their very existence and their way of life and that of their loved ones depends on them. Send those men into the newly dug trenches, where the smell of the dead men is nearly enough to drive you mad, along with the squeaking of rats and the birds as they tear at the decomposing bodies in the field._

_Keep those men there for days, weeks, months, while dropping bombs, bullets, poison gas onto them. Half of the men will be down with diseases like flu, pneumonia, dysentery, while you kill one fourth of them with those explosives and bullets, and incendiary and explosive bombs, while wounding the other quarter. Have some men go mad, and run into the battle ground where marksmen will do a good job of shooting them, while others will shoot themselves, drink lamp oil, or fall onto a bayonet. After two months on the line, out of a hundred men, only twenty five of whom you started with may be standing but the rest are sick, wounded, dead or missing._

_Occasionally, just for fun, have those men climb from their trenches and rush like mad to the enemy, where he will be firing at them. Some will die and some will be wounded so bring more men to the front, each batch being younger, less well trained, and less fit for trench life. Have the men on the other side of the farm do the same to you – rush madly from their fortified positions towards you, while you try to kill them. Do this insane activity time and again until one side gives up._

_Now in every farm surrounding this one, which you have so carefully prepared, do the same or worse. Take every town along a hundred mile line or longer and destroy those towns. Burn them, bomb them, utterly destroy the very vestiges of houses and schools until only broken wood and shattered foundations remains. Even destroy churches and hospitals, bridges, train stations, telegraph and telephone poles, the very fabric of human existence._

_Do this until you think you will go mad at the sight of it, the smell, the very thought that you have ordered men to their deaths. Or have killed men at a distance of a hundred yards or inches from your smoking revolver._

_And that dear diary is what we humans call war._

**Author's notes:**

**The inspiration of this chapter (God help me) comes from several things. History I have read, movies I have watched, an account by WWII war correspondent Ernie Pyle, a faded Cincinnati Enquirer newspaper article of what a WWII battlefield looked like using common terms, and stories from my late father (WWII Army - Europe) and late uncle (WWII USMC – Pacific Theater). My maternal grandfather and maternal great-uncle also served in the Great War, and I only have their stories second or third hand.**


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14 – Replacements

Would she have said yes or would she say no? It didn't matter anyway, mused Matthew. That ship had sailed and was well hull down.

He ran a dirty finger nail over the letter he was trying to write Lavinia. He read the paltry lines, knowing that half of what he'd written would not get through the post – the censors would rip it to shreds. He didn't care as it afforded some relief from the things he faced every day.

_Dearest Lavinia,_

_I can't imagine how much longer I can stand this situation. We lost Hooper, Pike, Pinkston (all killed) plus Laurel, Nicol, Miller, Styles, and Evans (those wounded) with Euler and Larkin down sick (pneumonia ) - all in the last two days. _

_Cropper is hobbling about on a bad foot but he won't report to medical and the new Lieutenant they sent up is totally useless. His name is Gibbon and the man is a fool – all bluster and bravado, but I noticed that when the Hun came at us (the action that lost my men), he was absent, claiming a bout of diarrhea and was deep in the command dugout. I shall have to get rid of him. When the others are dead on their feet from sickness, no sleep, seeing their mates killed, and a green Lt. shows up that is an obvious slacker, it's just too much._

_The replacements, include two green boys of 18 who are so poorly trained and unnerved that one pissed all over himself during the first shelling and the second is so stupid he barely can load his rifle. Others include a barber, a blacksmith, a joiner, a groom, and a carriage builder (all over thirty). I doubt any of those will last long._

_They shipped back Baker (he got a leg wound seven weeks back) and he says he is fit, but his hands shake like a man of seventy. He'll likely crack up soon. He came back with Larsen (after his third wounding) and Dennis (his second)._

_The best new man is a former gunner from the Air Corps, name of Speakes. He was sent up with four Lewis guns, as he has experience and is training the men. Not as heavy as the Vickers, but the rate of fire is slower, and they have smaller magazines. But the guns are far more portable and they may be useful. The man was invalided from flying since he kept getting nosebleeds at altitude. He is a useful man on the ground still._

_So I have been whittled down from a hundred and fifty men, to less than sixty effectives (technically I have 93 men on the roster but the sick rolls increase all the time)._

_The tinned ham you sent was wonderful. I hope you don't mind I shared it out with the men, as you sent so many containers. How you got the stuff is beyond me. It was rather a rousing dinner, we shared, boiled beans, some black bread barely fit for horses, watery coffee, and that wonderful ham. Each man got a slice about four inches square and one quarter of an inch thick and they have declared you the patron saint of the unit. _

_I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done and continue to do. The food, your letters_

There was a commotion and the flap flew open, as a German soldier was pushed inside, manhandled by Speakes, Baker, and Gibbons. The German fell on the dirt floor, under their rough treatment. His uniform looked nearly new, other than being muddy, and his helmet was unscarred by rust or gashes.

"Captain Crawley, sir!" shouted Gibbon, waving his Webley revolver about widly. "We caught this sodding kraut sneaking about!"

The German started to lower his hands and Baker yelled out, "Get those bloody hands up mate!"

The soldier's eyes were fear filled and he shot his arms to the heavens. "Jah… ich…"

"Shut it!" Gibbon lashed the man over his coal scuttle helmet with his glove.

Matthew shot to his feet. "Gibbon! Enough of that!"

"Right."

Matthew crouched down to look into the man's face. "Ihr name?

"Mein Name ist Johannes Kreutzer, mein Herr. But ich... speak a little… English?"

"Good." Said Matthew. "My German is not so good. Gibbon put that pistol away. You're waving it like a mad man."

The German relaxed and spoke hesitantly. "I got… Was ist das Wort? Lost… Yah. Lost."

"This is your bleedin' lucky day, mate!" said Baker and prodded them man with a bayonet. "The war is over for you!"

He stopped badgering the man when Matthew waved him back. "Herr Kreutzer, I won't harm you," Matthew added.

The man's face quivered and he started to cry. "Danke. Danke, mein Herr. I vas… only with my unit… ein day. They sent me… away… supplies… the others… toten… killed."

"How come you speak, English, Heinz?" yelled Gibbon. "You a spy?"

"Nein," quivered the soldier. "I vas Seemann… sailor… you know? I spend drei jahre as… Seemann. Yes? Zen Army. Visit England many times before zee var."

"He says he was a sailor?" Baker scratched his head. "Well, mate you're a bloody long way from the ocean."

"Put your hands down," said Matthew and that much got through as Kreutzer did as he was told.

Former flyer Speakes was silent though all this but bent down when the German fingered a chain about his neck. "What you got there, Johann? Vas ist das?" He grabbed the man's hand. "Bloody hell, it's a crucifix. He's wearing a crucifix, Captain."

"Jah, Jah!" Johannes said. "Jesus von Nazareth. Jesus Christus. See?"

Matthew looked down sadly at the sailor turned soldier, as the man gazed up at him with hopeful eyes. "Get this man some tea or coffee. Whatever we have."

"A bloody Christian. Jesus," exclaimed Baker. "Poor sod."

Matthew looked sadly at the soldier, groveling in the dirt as Mason gave him a mug, which the man drank greedily. "Poor sod, indeed."

Johannes drained the mug and held it out. "Danke Schoen, Kapitan."

Matthew sized up the situation. He didn't trust Gibbons at all and Baker he was not sure of after his combat experience. "Speakes, you and Mason. Take Kreutzer here to the rear. Treat him well. Nothing funny." Matthew knew that some prisoners 'had accidents' while being taken to the rear.

Gibbon butted in. "I can do it, Capt. Let me take him…"

Matthew gave Gibbon the evil eye. "No thank you lieutenant. Speakes, you understand? I want a report and a receipt."

Speakes squared his shoulders. "Yes, sir. To the cages. Right."

"We'll take good care of him, Captain," replied William Mason, who gulped looking at the German soldier, who wasn't that much older than he was.

"You do that," said Matthew as Gibbon fumed. "Lt. Gibbon, stay here, if you please. We need to have a talk."

**Author's notes:**

**Lewis gun – Lewis light machine gun. An air-cooled weapon, invented in 1911 by Isaac Newton Lewis in the United States, but first used by the British. The gun fired .303 ammo and was suited for aircraft as it was air-cooled, unlike the Vickers machine gun which was water cooled. It was fed by a drum magazine of 47 or 97 rounds, unlike the Vickers which was belt fed. The Vickers was tripod mounted, but the Lewis was nominally hand carried, even though it weighed 50 lbs (22.5 kg). It could be fired from by lying prone or from a bipod.**

**Conscription ages – England, by the end of the war, was drafting young fit men from age 18 up to 41. Some older men had seen their sons and nephews volunteer early in the war, then they themselves were conscripted. Some volunteered, when their 'boys' came home wounded, or not at all.**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15 – Flying

Johannes Kruetzer seemed very hesitant to William he handed him over to the guards at the cage, the prisoner of war station at the Rear.

"Go, on, then," urged William.

The man turned and held out his hand. "Auf Wiedersehen. Goot bye."

William gravely shook it, staring at the soldier's blue eyes and blonde hair. "See you." His eyes weren't that different from his own. "Take care."

Speakes waved at the German as the guards pushed him, not unkindly, into the enclosure and closed the gates of barbwire behind him. "Take care, mate," he said as the German waved to him.

Johannes said "Bye, Tommies" to the men who had captured him on his first day of combat. He was rapidly approached by other soldiers, all _kriegsgefangene_ just like him – prisoners of war. One gave him a lit cigarette and he inhaled deeply, only now feeling secure behind the wire.

The two ragged British soldiers looked hard at Kreutzer, then without a backwards glance, trudged away. Speakes examined the receipt Captain Crawley had demanded to ensure the man got to the cages safely. "Got our ticket, Mason." He folded the paper and slid it into his pocket. "That lucky sod."

William shook his head. "Who?"

"Him. The Heiney. He's done with the war."

"Yes, I suppose he is." William cleared his throat as they walked back, some two miles to their unit. "Unlike us."

They kept on without talking for a while until William spoke. "So, I heard you were a flyer."

"Yes," Speakes sighed. "I was."

"Ah." Another fifty yards of silence came and went, as they passed supply dumps, a field hospital, and ambulances shuttling to and fro.

Speakes lifted his helmeted head. "Look," he said and pointed to the sky.

William followed the direction of his finger and saw three tiny airplanes, high overhead heading to the German lines. "Ours?" he asked.

Speakes shielded his eyes and squinted. "Think so. Probably Spads. Sevens maybe."

"That what you flew? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

"No. I was in a De Havilland. The DH4. The driver was up front with a lovely Vickers firing right through the prop and I had my Lewis gun on a ring about me."

"Fighter?"

"Bomber. A little recon too. Fifty-five squadron, you know."

"Really."

Speakes pointed overhead where the planes forged ahead towards the enemy. "See that v-formation? We invented that. Keeps the planes together for mutual fire support. 'Course when the fighters come at you it's all a cock-up. Planes dodging and weaving, a sky full of lead, and meanwhile every bastard on the ground with a loaded rifle is trying to take a shot at you."

"Yes, I can see…"

"It's like this," Speakes went on, holding his hands out in front, one slightly behind the other. "If you stick with your wingmen, that's the planes in formation, you can keep the fighters off your backs with your interlocking field of fire. If they come at you from below, or out of the sun, it's a total bollox. Can't see them, so the gunner has to keep his head on a swivel, if you want to live that is."

Several seconds passed in silence and Speakes' hands dropped to his side. "Well, here I am; must have done something right." He sighed then kicked at a ridge of mud along the road.

William said, "You miss it."

"Sure I miss it."

"What's it like? To fly?"

Speakes looked up at the scattered clouds, the three planes just disappearing in the distance and opened his mouth. "When you're at altitude, after a nerve racking takeoff from a rutted field, all bumpy from repeated landings, but with a decent breakfast in your belly and after sleep in a real bed, you're climbing. The pilot, mine was named Wilton, he'll throttle back at cruising speed, to conserve fuel. You stuff cotton in your ears, always raiding the First Aid kits, so you don't go deaf from the racket of that big Rolls-Royce banging away on the nose. You look left and right at your wingmen, if you're flying lead. It's a fine day, scattered clouds, not too cold, but it's always cold up there. So you were sweating like mad on the ground in your long johns, heavy boots, flying outfit and leather jacket, so the silk scarf around your neck is soaked. But you wind it tighter about your neck, so you don't freeze from the air stream. You keep your head looking up and down and around, and if you see another plane, you make damn sure it's not one of theirs. We used to practice with airplanes sketches and wood models held out at weird angles."

"So you can tell... theirs from ours?"

"Yup. They'd jump you. Even after you get to the target and drop your eggs, still in danger, enemy fire from the ground, their planes. You still have to get back over the lines, through all that crap, pray you don't have engine failure. Saw one of our planes go down in No Man's Land. We flew right alongside, waved them luck, then climbed and circled as they attempted a landing. Almost made it. Bloody shell holes. Tore their undercarriage off, they went on, then a tree got their wing."

"They make it?"

Speakes shook his head side to side. "The Germans came right out of their trenches after them. The Aussies, they went to the party as well. Hell of a fight. I added the fire of my gun to the carnage as we flew overhead."

"So the flyers – your mates – they make it?"

"No," said Speakes sadly. "The Squadron commander got a nice note from the Aussie unit that carried them back. One was dead straight away. The pilot – nice man named Parmeter – bought it right there. The gunner, he was my mate, you know, was barely hanging on. They said he survived the crash but a German bullet hit him in the jaw as they carried him back to the trenches. Four Aussies died to get them you know. A bunch of wounded as well."

"Jesus. I'm sorry. Your mate?"

"Yeah. James Rennies was his name. Nice chap. Used to read Shakespeare's sonnets. Bloody waste, you know."

William clapped Speakes on the shoulder. "It's all a waste. Sorry about your friends."

Speakes sighed. "Most are gone. The survivors are sick; all busted up. And the young ones, bah! Most don't make it past their first combat mission. But the ones that do… well we gave 'em hell, boy. Me and Wilton… we did our bit." He sniffed then went silent.

"Wilton?"

Speakes nodded. "Sam Wilton. He didn't make it."

William heard the intense sadness in his voice. Best leave that alone. They walked some more. "How'd you end up here?" William waved at the muddy destruction about them.

"Here? Well, I grew up near Birmingham became a mechanic and a machinist. War came along, you know."

"Yeah," said William remembering his struggle against his dad to enlist.

"Five of us from the factory; we all joined the same day." He gulped. "Last I heard only me and Johnny Rivers are left. And him with half a leg shot off." He reached down and pointed to his shin. "Dum-dum bullet got him right here. Blew it clean off."

"Oh."

"Johnny was a pilot. Flew one of those little Sopwith Pups for the Royal Navy. Tangled with a couple of Germans, escaped as the rest of his mates got chewed up, then limping back to base some Hun took a shot from the ground. Johnny managed to tie off the stump with his belt, while holding the stick with his knees. He survived, just."

William touched Speakes on the shoulder. "Sorry."

"Oh, it's all right."

"You were a gunner?"

"That's what I get for being a lousy pilot and a far better marksman, plus I can field strip any machine there is, put it back together and get back to work. Told you – mechanic, I was."

William knew it must be more than that. If the man was a good gunner and a flyer, what was he doing here in his hell hole? Let the man keep his secrets. "You're good with the Lewis guns."

"That I am boy."

"You know, I don't even know your first name. I'm William."

"Tim," Speakes muttered. "But my mum always called me Timothy."

"Nice to meet you." They shook hands.

"Yeah," laughed Timothy Speakes. "That's what my dad said. Join the armed forces. Make new friends!"

"So back to the flying."

"Right. Well if no one is trying to kill you from the air, or the ground, and it's a nice day, you can get up above the clouds and smoke. The sun is shining, the air is cold, but clean, and when you look all around – the sky, the land – it feels like you could fly forever. Like a bird."

"Sounds lovely."

Speakes put his arm about William's shoulder. "It is, my lad, it is. _Heaven_ – that's what I think flying is. _Heaven_."

The two soldiers continued their walk back to their lines, to the accompaniment of far off artillery.

**Author's notes:**

**SPAD VII – A biplane designed built by the _Société Pour L'Aviation et ses Dérivés (SPAD) _from 1912 to 1921. Mounted twin machine guns on the nose, and was a noted fighter, although heavier than the lighter Nieuports. Able to fight the Fokkers (the German top planes) toe-to-toe, if the pilot was good enough.**

**De Havilland DH4 – The DH4, built by Airco and designed by Geoffrey De Havilland (the DH). It was a front engine, two-seater, biplane. Typically a bomber (up to 200 kg of bombs could be carried under the wings). Armed like a fighter, but a slow one, the birds had decent self- defense to keep fighters at bay.**

**Dum-dum bullet – A soft nosed lead bullet, made with a groove in the end which when hitting the target would split into a wide projectile leaving massive wounds. Addressed by the Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907. **

**Sopwith Pup – A light biplane fighter, built by Sopwith Aviation Company. It was slower than later models but served well in WWI. It was later outclassed by faster and more maneuverable planes.**


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16 - Brass

William slumped on the fire step in their trench and tried to catch his breath. He failed time after time as he broke into choking gasps, as every other one was almost a sob.

"Are you all right, private?" asked Matthew Crawley.

The boy nodded his head slowly. "Expect so, sir." He held his rifle, arms and hands shaking from what had just ended.

Matthew looked back and forth along the trench and tenderly touched William's shoulder. "Good lad."

William lifted haunted eyes to the Captain, as Tim Speakes limped by dragging the stock of his Lewis gun, the large barrel nearly red hot and smoking.

Matthew appraised the soldier. "Fine work, that," he indicated the light machine gun.

"Yes. I told you we needed to have our little beauties flanking the Vickers, mixed in with the riflemen sir." He patted the gun then wiped his mouth from firing the gun and spat. "Stopped 'em, sir. That we did."

William thought it quite odd to hear the Captain and Speakes discussing what had just happened, almost like discussing the results of a horse race. But it was the cold hard discussion of killing, not wagering at the track.

"When they sent those flankers at us…" Speakes threw water from his canteen into his face. "Silly arses thought they were able…" he stopped. "I guess their commanding officers are no better than ours. Another useless effort."

Crawley considered that with three dozen riflemen, four Lewis guns, and two Vickers they had stopped five squads of the Hun. Half his men were still down with colds and the squits yet they'd all reported for morning watch, those tense thirty minutes before dawn and just after it when enemy action was most likely. He shook his head with weariness. That last effort had almost gotten through. Almost…

Matthew raised his head to look across the field, where in the distance German troops were straggling back to their lines, after another foolhardy gambit on their lines. He squinted into the rising sun then dropped down as he heard the scream of enemy shells coming in. "Archie!" he screamed. "Take cover!"

His troops dropped where they stood or sat and buried their heads in the earth or tried to. All that is, but two.

Lt. Gibbon was standing on the fire step screaming defiance at the Hun gunners as the projectiles screeched to Earth. He waved his pistol about, his mouth screaming obscenities with a spray of spittle spewing forth. "Come on you Hun, bastards! Is that the best you can do?" he cried in a mad voice. He followed this outburst with an obscene gesture.

Matthew plunged towards the man, stepping over and on his own soldiers, yelling for him to get down. _The stupid sod_, thought Matthew as he yelled and rushed his way. He'd dressed him down good and proper about his lack of backbone. It was a calculated risk when he'd done it. Either the man would have to be sent home or he'd choose the extreme opposite.

Now Gibbon actually climbed halfway up a ladder, firing his pistol like a mad man. The smoke of his cartridges hung in the air, as the man pulled the trigger as fast as he could. "Come on you Hun bastards! Are you all blind? I'm right BLOODY HERE!" came his strident call.

Matthew slipped in a patch of mud in the last five feet, threw his arms onto the man's legs and tried to pull him down. "Gibbon, get down! Get down!"

Gibbon glanced down at Matthew and actually smiled.

The German artillery had their range, but the shells walked in. Forty yards away, then twenty; closer and closer to their line.

Matthew had enough time to think that the German fire control must be training a new man.

Each shell was comprised of twenty kilograms of high explosive, packed into a pointed shell; a giant bullet. The nose was a complicated mechanical device that would ignite a train of explosive powder when impacted. When the shell hit the ground, the fuse was compressed, the ignition charge was fired and the main charge detonated in less than one thousandth of a second. The expanding gasses and flame burst the enclosing shell, a steel casing, cast from Krupp's finest steel and machined in a massive factory far inside Germany.

The initial rotation of the shell was transferred to the expanding flame front, propelling bits of the steel shell, now a pulverized cloud of shards and flame, both radially and laterally. It was now an expanding cloud of steel fragments, travelling nearly as fast as the speed of sound, over 1,100 miles an hour. It had become a flame edged buzz saw, moving faster than eye could track or mind comprehend.

Gibbon looked up toward the bursts as each exploded. The man smiled at them. "Come on! COME ON! Is that the best you can do?"

Matthew pulled at the man, but he fought back, clubbing at his leader with his smoking pistol.

Gibbon pushed Matthew away. "Let go, damn it!"

A quarter mile away, a German observer peered through his ranging telescope as their shells fell on the enemy. He was tired, sick, and hungry and had just gotten a letter from his mother telling him that his brother was missing, somewhere near Metz. The fall of their rounds was still falling short of the Tommy lines! _Verdammt!_ The wind must have shifted! He motioned to the fellow on the field telephone and gave the correction.

The telephone message was passed to the gun pits and fire control signaled gun number three to increase their elevation by a tenth of a degree.

The elevation man carefully cranked the elevation wheel the indicated amount. "Bereit!" he called out.

The loaders rammed the shell into the breech of number three gun and the number two man slammed the breech block closed, as the massive square cut interrupted threads seated and locked.

He took two steps to the side, covered his ears with his hands and yelled to the gunner. "Feuer!"

The gunner jerked the leather lanyard, the cartridge fired from the impact of the firing pin in the breech block, and the gun recoiled, as the shell flew from the gun. It flew upward at twenty-five hundred feet per second on a parabolic trajectory, the shape of which was dictated by gravity, air resistance, spin of the shell, and wind; physics in action.

Matthew heard the round screaming in. It rushed along like a racing locomotive, but with a rising pitch; the impending arrival announced by the vibration of air molecules. He clawed at Gibbon, his gloves slipping on the mud of the man's trousers, finally getting a purchase as he pulled him down.

The explosion shook the earth, clods of dirt and shrapnel flew in all directions as Matthew fell onto Gibbon, where the lieutenant sprawled flat on his back.

More German shells fell thick and fast, for a minute, or two, or three. So many no one could quite tell; their eardrums, bodies, and minds punished by another round of German shelling.

"Stay still!" bellowed Matthew into the man's ear as Gibbon tried to move. "Stay down!"

Matthew heard the spray of hot steel shrapnel fly over his head, some bits pattering on his tin helmet, and onto his back and legs. He covered Gibbon as a lover might and as he felt Gibbon move under him. "Still, damn it!"

The firing stopped. "My God, Gibbon! You can't do that!" Matthew yelled at the man as he rolled off him.

Gibbon lay with a surprised look on his face, his eyes wide open.

"Gibbon, you scared me for a minute! You can't do that!" Matthew patted the man's arm. "Are you hurt?"

Lt. Gibbon's mouth fell open, and a tiny rivulet of blood ran from his forehead, from a mark half the size of a shilling.

"Gibbon?" asked Matthew, kneeling beside him. "Gibbon?" he paused a moment, then shaking him as he cried out, "Medic! Medic!"

The medicos hustled right along dragging their stretcher. The older medic took one look at Gibbon, leaned over his face and put an ear to his mouth. "Nope. He's bought it," he sighed. "Sorry Captain."

Matthew crouched on the ground for a few moments to compose himself, but he could not speak.

The medic pulled out a fag, lit it, drew a puff and offered it to the Captain.

Matthew took the offered cigarette and took a mighty drag, expelling the smoke after a few seconds. He gave the fag back to the man. "Thanks. Needed that."

The second medic dropped the stretcher into the mud and opened it. "Bloody fool," he whispered.

The first one took a few drags from the burning tobacco, ground it out on his boot heel and stuffed what was left back into his breast pocket. "The man had brass. I'll give him that."

William Mason had observed the ending to this passion play. He bent down and aided Captain Crawley to stand. "Come on sir. Nothing to be done now."

Matthew shook himself after he watched the medics put Gibbon's body onto the canvas stretcher. He sighed as they picked it up and walked away with their burden. "Right."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17 – Shame

Matthew paused at the door of the command dugout and beat a fist upon the framing.

"Sir?" William asked.

"Nothing." He went through and flung his helmet at the wall.

The former second footman followed the officer in and watched as his commander started to fall apart into little pieces.

Captain Matthew Crawley collapsed onto the ration box that served as a chair. "Did you know," he started speaking through gritted teeth, his words came out haltingly. "That Lt. Gibbon had a wife? And children?"

William tried to ignore the tears running down Matthew's face. "No sir."

Matthew rubbed his face then looked hard at his batman, his aide, his _friend_. "And do you know that his wife's name was Regine? Regine Sparrow – of the Manchester Sparrows not the Liverpool Sparrows? Her father is a baronet."

William tried to stay still, as the captain suffered a break of nerve. He's seen it happen before, and each time Captain Crawley bounced back – but each time a little sadder.

"Their children are named Josephine and Henry. Josie, he called her Josie, she's four years old. Henry is the baby; he was born last January, in 1917."

"No, sir."

Matthew stood and rubbed his face with dirty hands once more. "No, I'd not think you'd have known that." He wrung his hands together then into a knot. "I met his father-in-law once, years back, when I was a law student. He'd come to our college to give a talk on land tax law and its effect on agriculture. Sir Sparrow is a solicitor, just like me."

William nodded, trying to remain present, yet invisible. Almost like waiting table at Downton, so he kept his back straight, hands at his sides, and face impassive. "Didn't know that sir."

"Gibbon had told me about his family, and when he mentioned Sir Sparrow, I recalled him at once. Quite the gentleman. He was most knowledgeable about law."

"I see."

Matthew unclipped his belt and the shoulder strap, rolled the belt about the holster and made as it to throw it. He lifted his arm but then relaxed, giving William a faint grin. "Best clean this. You never know when I might be wanting it again." He lowered his arm, unsnapped the holster and pulled out the Webley. He ran his hand along the barrel. "Marvelous bit of machinery isn't it?"

William gently took the revolver. "I'll clean it sir. Make it fit."

Matthew's arm fell to his side, the belt and holster falling away from his limp fingers. "Oh, William… how long can we… I … keep this up?"

The batman tenderly helped his officer to the cot. "Here sir. You're tired. You rest now."

An hour later Sgt. Cropper came by with the casualty report, but William tried to shush him before the captain woke.

Too late, as Matthew rose from the cot. "What is it Sergeant?"

He held out a scrap of paper. "Got the casualties, sir."

Matthew wearily took the paper and stared at it. "Just five?"

"Yes. Lt. Gibbon and Biggs got it, sir. Plus the others – Miller, Johnson, and Baker – all slightly wounded. Only Miller went to Hospital."

Matthew read the names once more. How any names had he seen like this? How many names, he wondered. He ought to remember them all. Each of them, but he didn't. There were too many. Some of the wounded came back, twice, even three times. But a lot - didn't. "Thank you, Sgt. - for doing my job."

Cropper rubbed his grizzled beard. He was the oldest man in the outfit; all of 36, but his hair was as gray as a man of seventy. "The Lieutenant… uhm… was not able to…"

Matthew stared at the man, puzzled, and then he remembered that he'd given Gibbon that job; to tally the wounded, sick and the dead. "Right." He rubbed the scrap of paper with his fingers. Names on a page. "That will be all."

Cropper gave a salute, which Matthew returned. The sergeant started to go, and then turned. "Captain Crawley. Looks like we have bad luck with second officers. Cox and Gibbon, both."

"Yes," said Matthew. He'd absolutely hounded the man into being brave, to be strong, to show an ounce of courage… and he'd failed Gibbon and his wife and his children. What the Army needed was not what Gibbon had in him, until the last and that was in a foolish, or was it desperate, attempt _to be a man_?

The private interrupted his thoughts. "You'll need to initial the casualty report, sir, after I write it up."

"Of course. William, do we have any of that brandy left?" Matthew said with a strange look in his eyes.

William gave Cropper a surprised look. "Believe you do."

"Get it out, would you? Cropper stay a minute."

"Sir," the grizzled non-comm said.

The batman rummaged about in a makeshift cupboard and dragged out a small flask. "Here it is, sir."

"Well, sergeant, we owe… Lt. Gibbon a drink, don't we? William, three cups, if you please."

William poured an inch of liquid into three battered tin cups and served them out.

Matthew looked into the liquid, which seemed murky in the shadows of the dugout. He looked at his aide and the old soldier. "Let us make a toast."

They raised their cups.

Matthew looked the men in the eyes, each in turn. "Here is to Lt. Michael Gibbon, of his Majesty's Royal Army, III Corps, Fourth Battalion, Duke of Manchester's Own. He served as he was able."

They drained the brandy, although it was vile, a bad batch, and it tasted of metal from the cups.

"Oohh," said Cropper sucking air as the brandy burned down his gullet. "That's right sir. As he was able."

"Yes, sir," said William, who'd only taken a few drops of the brandy, as he didn't like to drink.

Matthew smiled at his men. "Thank you. Cropper, you've seen to…"

"Yes, sir. Medics have gotten things tidied up," he said, which was the standard answer for carting off the dead and the wounded. "Back to normal, sir."

"Thank you once more. Now William, best get on to that report and we'll have to get that to the Rear so we can get replacements, if there are any available."

William nodded as he took the cups. "I'll get right to it, Captain."

Cropper put his snuff back between his teeth and chewed. He didn't like what he saw. The Captain was tired, no, more than worn out. He looked beaten, just beaten down. Seeing death up close will do that to a man, he knew. He'd felt it himself. "Captain," he started to say.

Matthew raised weary eyes. "Yes?"

Cropper swallowed his words. "Better see to the men, sir." He left.

Matthew watched the canvas sway back and forth with Cropper's departure. The brandy was no help at all. Not a bit. He thought about what he'd said to Gibbon, in low measured tones. No shouting, no wheedling, he just told him that he had to do his duty and to show courage under fire. Well, he had done that. It was ill-timed, poorly planned, and likely an accident.

Gibbon had stayed with the right flank Vickers gun crew when the German charge came and in the melee, Matthew had seen him racing back and forth exhorting the men, firing his revolver, hauling an ammo case to the gun, plugging gaps in the line, when men reloaded.

My, God! He thought, the man had done it! He'd actually done it.

He bit his lip in sadness. No that wasn't quite the right word. It was shame, shame was what he felt. Shame and fear. If that piece of shrapnel was a few inches lower in its path… he'd have got it in the back of the head. He shook off the feeling, scoured his face, and went back to being an officer.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18 – Plan of Battle

Colonel Tommy Collins looked up from the sand table arrayed with flags and tiny placards. "Questions?" His officers clustered about him were both young and old. Some had served in the Boer War, others had been in this one for years, and others were as shiny as new pence. His keen eyes roved about the room, seeking those who had questions or needed something answered.

Major Glasson of the Fusiliers blew a low whistle. "Colonel, begging your pardon, but are they all daft? The lot of them?"

Collins nodded. "Daft enough, I hope." He shifted his weight to ease the strain on his damaged and lame knee. "Perhaps."

Glasson shook his head and pointed to the table. "Run straight across, in broad daylight, no artillery prep, the tanks all up here," he pointed to the end of the table. "Can't be done."

Collins braced himself, as of all people Glasson knew that this was the only plan. "The spring rains have gone, the ground is firming up, the tanks will get into their trenches and forts, clean them out. The infantry will support that assault and carry through behind a creeping barrage where we don't have tank support."

"Madness. An assault along the whole front? Is it possible?" Glasson's face grew long. "Don't want to be the naysayer…"

"That's all right, Major." Collins drew himself up. "This is quite hush-hush. When the German offensive petered out this June, we knew had them. The Americans are holding the line here. Marvelous what the Yanks have done." He cleared his throat as he recalled the battle of the Marines at Belleau Wood; a bitter fight. "Those _Devil-Dogs_, marvelous men. Stopped the Germans on their way to Paris. But we must have the Hun and all at once!"

"Now, the Canadians have been moved to our south, all in secret, plus the Australians. The French next to them. So here we sit. Ready to go. The Germans sputtered out in early June. Now, after the Marne…" he made a fist with his good hand, the other having two fingers shot away. "We have them. Ten; gentlemen. Ten divisions, across a ten mile front. And the Fourth Army is right here – at the end."

Matthew Crawley measured the sand table with a hard look. Being mired down as he was in the line, he'd had no idea there was so much massing of their forces. No, he thought, not _forces_. Men - living and breathing men. Thousands of men, facing thousands more on the other side. He drew a deep breath, as this would be _very_ hard to pull off.

"If any one of you breathes a word of this to anyone, I will personally shoot them." Collins repeated. He waved his hands across the table. "This is the key. We'll drive straight through them. Look well on this, men. General Rawlinson has planned this thoroughly. At Amiens we'll drive miles through their lines. Nothing will stop us."

"Dear God," said someone in the back.

Collins smiled. "Yes, a little help from the Almighty will be rather useful."

"Sir?" asked a Captain from the Glosters. "What about their observers? They'll see us coming out of our positions."

"Well… the Royal Air Force will be doing their bit to keep any eyes off of binoculars." Collins felt a rivulet of sweat run down his face. The thought of using incendiary bombs, even on the Hun, gave him the willies. "Don't you worry about that. You just do your bit. That creeping barrage will keep their heads down as well."

Matthew felt the Colonel's eyes on his face and knew that there was _no_ choice. This had to end. "Sir, we'll do it. Our bit, that is." He said it softly as it felt the right thing to say, but totally mad.

"Yes, lad, I know." The Colonel limped over to start shaking hands. The first one he took was Matthew's. "Crawley. Good lad. I'll expect to see you and that aide of yours at Downton when this is all over!"

Matthew smiled, knowing it was likely a forlorn hope, but he played the game as they all did. "Of course, sir. I'll hold you to it."

The Colonel moved on and Matthew stood stock still, looking about the packed room in the damaged French chateau. He looked long and hard at each officer there. Some he knew well, like Spokane and Gaithers. Others were total strangers. But it didn't matter. What did matter was that they were in this together – all together – and all their men.

The group broke up with forced smiles, pats on the back and handshakes. Matthew looked about the room, and Colonel Collins wave to him on the way out.

Matthew got through the security cordon and found William Mason. "Let's go, Mason."

"What's up sir?" asked the boy.

"The usual," Matthew told him, but felt a knot in his stomach as he said it. "Let's find some food before we go back."

**Author's notes:**

**Amiens – A town in northern France, some 100 miles (160 km) north of Paris. The huge offensive fought east of the town kicked off on 8 August, 1918.**

**Royal Air Force – Made up of the Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Naval Air Service which were merged into the Royal Air Force in April 1918.**

**Incendiary bombs – Bombs, either from aircraft, mortar, artillery, or grenade, which contained white phosphorus. The chemical burns upon contact with air and is extremely difficult to put out once aflame. In a different formulation can also be used for marking positions with smoke or for concealment.**

**Rawlinson – Sir Henry Rawlinson, commander at the Battle of the Somme in 1916, had learned well the art of war by mid-1918. He put all the cards on the table at Amiens. It was the beginning of the Hundred Day Offensive.**

**Creeping barrage – A type of artillery mission that starts at the enemies front line, then moves slowly forwards deeper and deeper into their lines. Infantry would advance with it killing or capturing enemy forces as they were overrun. At Amiens, the barrage moved 100 meters every three minutes.**

**Devil-Dogs – The United States Marine Corps Fourth Brigade was thrown into the fight at Belleau Wood, in the Battle of the Marne, as the Germans made a huge advance towards Paris. The USMC lost 10,000 men stopping that offensive.**


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 – Night

Matthew had done all he could; gotten the men as much ammunition as they could carry, checked that all had gas masks, that the medics had their kits ready, and at the end, he was making the rounds.

William Mason, his aide, fussed at him about it. "But sir! You need your rest, as well! You can't keep going on…"

Matthew held up his hand and the private stopped. "William, yes, I know. I will rest. But this I must do."

"Captain Crawley… all the men… we'd go to Hell for you sir."

Matthew looked at the tall boy. He valued the lad so much. "In case you haven't noticed William, this is Hell."

"Yes, sir. I _have_ noticed. And we'll be well out of it someday, but not if _you_ don't get _some sleep_!" he hissed. Honestly, he thought, there were times that Matthew acted just like a little child, and he was the stern parent. "This bloody war can wait for a few hours so you can sleep! You're dead on your feet as it is!" he scolded.

Matthew lifted his weary face to the tall private. "Whatever would I do without you William?"

"I can't say sir. But you'd be a _damn_ sight better fit if you lay down for an hour or two. Sorry to curse sir."

"All right, William," Matthew muttered. "But I have to see the men, all of them."

"It's well past midnight sir."

Matthew glanced at his radium watch dial. "So it is. But we're almost done."

"Yes, sir," William sighed.

At the north machine gunner dugout, Matthew and William paused outside the door. They stopped when they heard a chorus of voices from inside the shelter. Some were old and some young.

"Pass the bottle, Alf."

"Yeah, here," answered a second.

"You two have been hogging that thing, give it here!" said an older soldier.

A sloshing noise came next with a splash. "Bill, you drunken sod! Now you've spilled it!"

They heard a fumbling noise on the wooden planks. "Not much. And I'm not drunk, either!"

"Ah, this frenchy wine. Not bad. Wot they call it?"

"Mer-lott, or something," someone else muttered.

The Captain and the Private heard this exchange for a few moments, and Matthew began to enter, when another voice spoke.

"Hey, flyboy!"

The voice of Timothy Speakes came next, his Brummie accent clear. "What?"

"Do it."

"No."

"Come on. Let us hear it."

A chorus of voices chimed in, urging him to _"do it."_

"Ah, for chrissakes, I will, if it will shut you lot up!"

William tapped on Matthew's arm. "It's getting quite late sir."

"Wait." Matthew said.

They heard a scrape of boots and the scramble of feet.

"All right you lot," Speakes said. "Now you listen good. Old Will hisself wrote out these words. So you listen and right well. They're not mine, you see. I can only pass 'em on." His words sounded slurred either with fatigue or wine. He cleared his throat and started to speak slowly but with force and conviction.

"_This day is call'd the feast of Crispian. He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian._

_He that shall live this day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'_

_Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words - Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester - Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red._

_This story shall the good man teach his son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered -_

_We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me, Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition;_

_And gentlemen in England now-a-bed, Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks, That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."_

"Henry the V," said Matthew, who then pushed into the squalid opening to see Speakes standing on an ammo box, lit by the light of two flickering candles, with ten or twelve of the men sitting about him, smoking, passing a bottle, each one enthralled at the sound of the immortal words.

"Ten hut!" someone called out.

They jumped to their feet at attention, and the one with the wine bottle tried to hide it.

Matthew saluted, took off his helmet and sat. "At ease."

Most of the men sat down while some slouched against the dugout walls.

"Sir?" said Corporal Nicol warily from the gloom, "we was just…"

Matthew waved him off. "It's all right. Is that wine?"

"Yeah. Not very good I'm afraid," came hesitant words from Private Moore.

"May I try it?" Matthew held out a hand and the bottle came his way.

He smiled at the men clustered about the cramped chamber. He held up the bottle, "Cheers." The liquid was thick and black in the dim light and there was perhaps a quarter of the bottle left. He swirled the contents, put it to his mouth and drank a swallow. It really wasn't that bad. He'd had worse as well as lot better. "Not that bad," he started to say then coughed and that made the men laugh.

"Not the best eh?" Nicols added.

Speakes laughed. "Better than that bug juice we found last week!"

Captain Crawley handed the bottle back. "It's not whiskey, but it will do," Matthew said and that drew more chuckles. He looked about the room, trying to fix these faces in his memory. All the men looked tired, but some had shaved, uniforms were generally tattered, worn and dirty, even of the newest replacements, some of which had come up in the last ten days. A few were smoking, one was rubbing the cover of a Bible, and one had a letter in his grubby hands.

"Letter from home?" Matthew asked.

"Yes," said the soldier. The boy squinted at the paper in the dim light. "From my mum. She tells me my younger sister just got engaged to a Royal Navy man."

Matthew looked up to William, who bent down and whispered into his ear. "That's Private Saunderson, sir. From Manchester – Canal Street," said his aide.

"Yes, Saunderson, great news that," said Matthew armed with the information. "Tell your mum... uhm, congratulations then." He looked at the lad, who must have been barely eighteen, and seeing the young face, it made him feel ancient.

The man beamed. "Thank you sir. I was just writing her back."

Matthew stood up, and the men rose. "I'll go then. Thank you for the wine…" he caught Speakes eye. "And Speakes, a fine speech that."

"Thank you sir," said the man.

"You should be on the stage."

Speakes laughed and pointed at the box he'd stood on. "Just that one, Captain."

Matthew paused in the doorway. "Thank you, men. For the wine. See you," he looked at his watch. It was mow almost 1 AM. "Later today then."

Matthew left with William in tow. They slogged in silence through the trenches past sentries standing lonely watch this August night.

"_To the ending of the world_," muttered Matthew as he stripped off his kit, when back at the command dugout.

"What's that sir?" asked William who was taking the Captain's belt and holster.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he answered.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20 - People

William had managed to get Matthew to lie down, if not actually go to sleep, some time ago and he'd blown out the candle after writing a quick note to Daisy. It read:

_Dearest Daisy,_

_Another 'over the top' exercise tomorrow. I suspect the war can't go on too much longer, or so I hope. _

_I can't say enough times how much knowing that you are waiting for me has bucked me up over here. Maybe this war might be the last one – ever. I can't see how we can invent even more fearsome weapons than we already have. Seems to me that the ones we have are quite enough to do all the killing and wounding you could ever want._

_I am so very tired of all this. But knowing that someday I'll get home to see you keeps me going. If the war was over that would be the best. Have you thought when we might set a date? _

_I was thinking that if Lord Grantham would be agreeable to the idea, we might live in one of the cottages on the grounds. We could even work it out so we could sleep there, have our own home, at least when we weren't working, until the children come._

_I'd best rest now. It will be a hard day tomorrow._

_ALL MY LOVE,_

_William_

William felt that he had done everything he needed to do for the morrow so he slept the sleep of the just.

Matthew lay on the cot feet away and heard the scratching of a pencil as William wrote away. Finally the candle went out and he heard the creak of the cot as William lay down. He listened carefully to the night sounds, picking out the tramping of the sentry outside, the muttering of someone at the nearby latrine, and a clink of stone on metal. The last sound was likely the second sentry sharpening his bayonet.

Bayonets; the foot long stickers the riflemen carried, which converted their rifles into simple pikes, not that different from the pike men from Henry V's day. He sighed as he reviewed the battle plan. It was madness. But this _entire war_ was madness. Machine guns with their withering rate of fire, could mow down an entire company in a minute, so trenches were dug. Stalemate, each side pinned down by bullets and artillery.

Then the bright boys came up the idea of a tracked and armored tractor. Matthew had seen tanks used in 1917, and if the machines didn't breakdown, they could cross No Man's Land easily, although deep trenches and artillery fire could defeat them. He didn't like them though. Every gun that could fire would be focused on the things and the rattle of bullets must be maddening inside. One explosive shell in just the right place – boom! Done for.

Still, he mused, if they drew fire away from his troops, he was all for it. Matthew rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the rolled up blanket that served as his pillow. He didn't want to think about tanks or artillery, machine guns or grenades – he had enough of that. So his thoughts turned to Lavinia.

Lavinia Swire, who was a sweet person, selfless, kind, gentle, and who never asked for much of anything. Matthew felt that in many ways she was just the opposite of his cousin Mary.

Mary Crawley could jump from being obstinate, rude, fiery, and downcast to welcoming, happy, agreeable, and fun. He paused and really thought hard. When the mortar round nearly fell on him, and thank God it was a dud, he recalled that in the very last moment he'd called out her name – _Mary_ and not _Lavinia_. Now why was that?

He knew why – in his heart of hearts he knew why. He'd heard things, _nasty_ things, about Sir Richard Carlisle and he couldn't see that Mary and he would get on at _all_. She was mad to have accepted Carlisle and dithered to and fro when Matthew had asked her to marry.

Marriage to Mary Crawley, his third cousin once removed, would have solved all sorts of problems. But she didn't say _yes_ nor did she say _no_. Matthew had finally blown up at the garden party, the day war was declared. He'd told her off and stomped away, as she cried crocodile tears.

Matthew had practically accused her of being not genuine – not sincere. Her mother's pregnancy, and the terrible fall and miscarriage, had put paid to Mary's plan to hold out for the birth. Yes, the child would have been the heir - a son for Robert and Cora – but it came far too early.

So the limelight fell onto Matthew once again and Mary did not rush with an answer to his proposal. At that point, Matthew felt very much used, rather like a stud. All they wanted, really, was an agreeable male to marry one of the Crawley daughters - they likely didn't care which one - which would keep Lady Grantham's American money in the estate, and then if he was slightly agreeable enough, to get the wife pregnant, hopefully with a boy. Then he could be retired to town to spend this rest of his days puttering about at his club, or shooting, or yachting. Just deliver the goods and get out of the way!

He thought, lying on the filthy cot with feet of earth and timbers over his head, just hours before they were to go over the top, even more about Mary.

_Why then, Matthew, has she been writing to you, and gave to you her toy dog as a good luck charm?_

Perhaps she was just being nice – family and all that.

_No, Matthew. You don't understand!_ his conscience nagged at him.

It's a toy!

_If it's a toy, why is it in your pocket at this very moment?_

I accepted it from her at the railway station to be pleasant, to make nice.

_Do you really believe that?_

He rolled onto his back. He needed sleep! This internal conversation was insane!

_If Mary Crawley doesn't worry over you, then why are you worrying about her? About Carlisle? She's a big girl - she can take care of herself! Give the woman some credit Matthew!_

He wagged his head back and forth in consternation. But what of Lavinia? I love her!

_Of course, you love her, and she loves you. But what of Mary? What if she had said **yes** to you to marry, before her mother fell pregnant? What then? She'd be your wife, there would be a will, a wedding night, all that and she might be lying in her bed at Downton Abbey at this moment pregnant with your child? Think of that Matthew! You might be a father soon! And Mary… Mary would be happy._

But Lavinia…

_Yes, yes. Lavinia Swire. **She** wasn't your first choice. You know what your first choice was and you still don't know if she would have said **yes** or **no**, now do you? And you rejected her! So Matthew…_

Oh leave me alone!

_Alright, if that's what you want._

Matthew struggled up on is elbow, pulled the tiny cloth dog from his pocket and held it in the darkness, on the night before a battle. Dear God! Matthew knew that his conscience was right, too right, in far too many ways. Yet that bridge had been crossed, the boats burned as well, and there was no going back. He put his head down on the cot, hugged the toy dog to his chest, and tried to sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21 – Leader

William tugged hard on the buckles of Matthew's kit, tying the gear firmly into place. He tried not to notice but Matthew seemed to be quivering, and not with the eager anticipation of a hound before the fox hunt. He noticed Matthew clutching something in his jacket pocket but did not ask what it was.

Matthew resisted the terrible urge to jump as William settled the equipment on his trembling body. At last he had figured out that his life was not at all what he wanted it to be. For all he knew he might never get a chance to sort it out. His bloody conscience had tortured him mercilessly until his mind fell exhausted into a fitful sleep and even then, his dreams were… unsettling to say the least.

He knew his mother was somewhere over Here in France, and he wished he'd written her a letter for all the good it would have done. It would not have settled anything about him and Lavinia, or Mary, but at least he would have unburdened himself.

He looked at William, good and faithful, steadfast; the one constant in all his efforts these months. William never complained or argued and he had the patience of a saint and the demeanor of a priest. Any indiscretions that Matthew may have made had been pointedly ignored by the boy, and in some ways, Matthew felt that William might have made the better officer.

Yet waiting table as a footman after years as a hall boy, William Mason had learned discretion; to keep secrets. This must be, thought Matthew, why Lord Grantham was both protective and so certain of his servant John Bates. When in war, one's fellows would see our best and worst sides. Matthew hoped that William, no matter what happened today, would think the best of his Captain.

"They'll throw the lot at us," he said quietly as William straightened the cleaned Webley on his belt. It wasn't what Matthew wanted to say, but as a man, it was all he could say aloud to the boy.

The lad stood straight and tall and confidently answered, "Then we'll just have to chuck it back!"

The buoyant tone was exactly what Matthew needed to hear, so he tugged down on his field jacket to straighten it, swallowing the hot spit that flooded his mouth.

000

The men stood clustered in their trenches, each loaded with rifles, grenades, bandoliers of ammunition, field dressings, and canteens.

Matthew tugged on a few respirators, as he passed, checking to see they were clipped on well in case of a gas attack. He tried quite hard to smile at the men under his command. Some were smoking, sharing a fag, others prayed, or read letters, or scribbled on scraps of paper. Each one had the _look_ and he knew what the look was. He had it on his own face but he kept going, patting an arm here and there, propelling himself by responsibility and not by confidence.

There wasn't much talking as they stood like steers queued at the slaughterhouse gate. Matthew pushed that thought from his mind and checked his watch. It was almost time.

Time to go _Over the Top_ - into No Man's land in a mad dash at the enemy. Toward the Germans, the Hun, the men who were just as scared as they were.

What did the Colonel say? Ten divisions and ten miles. Yes they could do it, thought Matthew, but at what cost?

One man yelled out to him, "We're with you sir!" and many nodded in agreement.

"Thank you Wakefield, that makes all the difference," he said calmly. He took a last look about his command. "Fix bayonets!"

The men did as he ordered and he caught Sergeant Cropper's eye and the man grinned, as he shifted his plug of tobacco from one cheek to the other.

Tim Speakes stood nearby looking thoughtful, weighed down by his Lewis gun, with two helpers loaded with extra round ammo magazines. The man had acquitted himself very well, as only Matthew knew that Tim Speakes had developed a fear of flying, yet had volunteered for the Front – to do his bit.

The newly promoted Corporal Nicol took a last drag on his smoke, pulled it from his mouth and threw it to the ground. "Right" he muttered. He looked hard at his squad of twelve troopers and they looked back in silence.

All the rest of the soldiers did much the same; not speaking, each alone with their thoughts.

Each man gripped his weapon as Matthew called out, "Make Ready!" He tucked his whistle into his mouth and drew his pistol. He watched the seconds tick down on his watch in this predawn hour.

The men mounted the ladders; crowded together and ready to go – almost eager for this task to be over.

The second hand ticked along. Twenty seconds left.

Matthew felt William at his back as he crouched on the ladder. That was what he needed, he knew - the confidence of his aide who had endured so much with him of this horrible war. The pressure of William against his legs and back bucked him up as he was the _bulwark_. _William_ was the brave one Matthew believed. The footman was the best of the best and not the trembling officer on the ladder.

In that moment, it became clear to Matthew Crawley that one could _not_ lead from the rear. Leadership could only be accomplished from the _front_.

Ten seconds.

The thought of Lavinia flashed through his head, followed by the image of Mary's sad smile on the train platform.

Five seconds.

The wood of the ladder was splintered and rough but Matthew gripped it decisively. "Lord, help me," he prayed silently.

Zero!

Captain Crawley blew his whistle and screaming a massive roar, torn from true British throats, the men of The Duke of Manchester's Own rushed up and forward following their leader Over the Top into battle.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22 – Cost

The kitchen of Downton Abbey was a madhouse as always. The ovens were hot, along with the stove, as the house maids were rushing upstairs to finish clearing away breakfast as Daisy Robinson was stirring soup stock in the middle of the mayhem.

It was a lovely soup, the main ingredient a very nice firm sole, cooked with onions and tomatoes in a light fish stock with white wine. Daisy had just sprinkled finely ground parsley, along with cloves and oregano in, and slowly stirred two gallons of the mix in a large copper pot. This would be a good part of the servant's luncheon, so best to get it started.

She'd heard that in some of the houses, before the war of course, they had made something similar, but used prawns, lobsters and monkfish. With so many men and fishermen off to war it was difficult to get prawns. So Mrs. Patmore had made up this recipe, using only sole. The trick was not to heat it too long or the fillets would fall completely apart. So Mrs. Patmore had told her to work on the stock, get it all nice and simmering, then they could lay it aside for later – adding the poached sole at the last.

Mrs. Patmore was working away on the main course for upstairs luncheon, which was a tenderized chicken breast, which had marinated in champagne overnight, as well as a large green salad, roasted potatoes and crispy toast rounds, when she saw Daisy standing completely still with a bewildered look on her face. "Daisy, whatever's the matter with you?"

"Someone walked over my grave," the silly thing said.

Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes and got back to work. The silly girl was always getting funny ideas about things; mostly fluff and nonsense, the cook knew.

The scullery maid stood there transfixed, her eyes wide open. "But," the girl's face had gone all pale, "I felt it."

"So you're going to ruin our lunch, that it? Stir! Stir that soup! If you burn it, it will have to be tossed out. Now hop to it!"

The child went back to work but rubbed her arms where gooseflesh had sprung up. She turned to face the cook. "Mrs. Patmore, I was thinkin'…"

"Stir, girl! Stir! No time for thinking!" yelled Mrs. Patmore. "Do you want eggs for luncheon? It will be all your fault if we do!"

Daisy slowly stirred the soup stock, scraping the side and bottom, so nothing would stick. She felt smothered as she hovered over the steaming stove, pots bubbling away with the oven baking that special bread that the Lady Cora adored.

She felt dizzy so she took a drink of cool water from the pitcher by the sink and then went back to the stove.

Miss O'Brien walked past her. "Daisy, you look like you seen a ghost." She shook her head as the maid fanned herself.

"It's…" Daisy started to say, but O'Brien waved her off.

"None of my business," said the lady's maid and she looked disapprovingly at Mrs. Patmore as she approached and grabbed Daisy by the arm.

The cook bit her lip and then toned down what she wanted to say when she saw how upset the girl seemed. "Back to the stove, Daisy. Go on." The girl had been pensive lately, and this was likely more of the same.

Daisy took up the spoon and went back to stirring but still felt nervous about _something_. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

000

The advance continued as enemy rifle fire, machine gun bullets and mortars chewed at the men. Yet they kept plunging on. Men fell behind through injury, death, or exhaustion while the survivors ran headlong.

William fired his rifle, again and again at the gray helmeted forms across the field of battle. He jumped in and out of shell holes, around or over blasted tress, splintered carts, and a dead horse. It was all a blur of smoke, screaming, and explosions. As he ran, his breath pounded in and out of his lungs and his legs burned. Still he fired, reloaded and fired the Enfield, and reloaded again until the barrel was so hot it would take the skin off a hand.

He saw Pinkston catch a mortar round, the man flung into the air screaming. Others fell with head and chest wounds. Some fell screaming in pain, for a medic or for their mums, while the rest fell dead.

Matthew was some yards ahead at that point, his Webley out of ammo, yet he kept running, screaming at the top of lungs, and urging the men on. "Forward! Forward!" he yelled to them, waving them on as Archie got their range. But their own artillery pounded the German lines as the bullets coming their way slackened. They followed the creeping barrage, nearly to the German lines somehow.

Matthew saw some of his men fall but he and the rest pushed through in a line abreast as they targeted the machine guns which were facing them. Over shell craters, barb wire strands torn apart, and more debris, they were nearly to the first enemy trench line!

His voice was now hoarse from yelling and the firing of weapons and falling of mortar bombs made his ears ring. His mouth was dry, full of dirt and cinders, yet still he ran on. "Forward!" he yelled and the men followed. He jumped into a crater and reloaded his pistol then came out running once more, firing at the heads of the enemy, still fighting back.

Enemy shells rained down faster even as the bullets from the trenches began to falter. "Come on, men!" he screamed. "We've got them now!"

He saw Moore go down, followed by Nicol and Taylor. So he ran faster towards the enemy.

000

Violet, Cora, and Mary sat in the library having tea. Violet had come over from the Dower House, not for breakfast, but to pass on some delicious gossip about what she had heard about the Bradshaw's butler.

Mary sat between her grandmother and mother, not the least bit interested in what her granny had to say. But what could granny have to discuss, other than who said what to whom, or did not?

"And then," the old woman continued, "their butler sat down right in front of Lord Bradshaw and said he needed to have a _talk_! I never heard of such a thing. Disgraceful."

Mary rolled her eyes at Carson who stood in attendance but the man didn't move a muscle. She tried to keep a straight face as her grandmother nattered on, as the old woman wanted everything to be static; unmoving , fixed in time and space. Why she'd even protested electricity when papa arranged for the electric mains to be strung there. But change was inevitable, like it or not.

"He then proclaimed that he wished to marry their head cook! I can't imagine how the Bradshaw's will ever manage without both of them." Violet went on with consternation. "These things were not done in my day!" she sniffed.

Cora gave her mother-in-law a sympathetic look. "They will manage somehow." She sighed. "It could be worse, you know."

"But how _can_ they manage? All the suitable butlers gone off to war and you could pay an absolute fortune for a decent cook nowadays!" Violet stamped her foot with irritation. "All these modern ideas…"

Mary felt faint, gasped and fumbled her tea cup, the china falling to the floor where the saucer and cup smashed as tea spewed out across the carpet.

Violet grabbed Mary's hand in shock. "What happened?" the dowager asked in alarm.

"I don't know. Suddenly I felt terribly cold." Mary clutched at her granny as terror filled her. What was _that_, she wondered? The room spun then settled down.

Cora asked, "Mary, _do_ you need to lie down? Perhaps…"

"No. I'm fine," Mary lied as she still felt flushed and light headed.

Violet gave her granddaughter a worried glance. "Perhaps you _should_ lie down, my dear."

Mary held up her hand as Mr. Carson rang for a maid to remove the broken china then moved to pour a new cup for Lady Mary. "I'm fine. Just go on, granny."

"My lady," said Carson, as he presented a replacement tea cup and saucer to her.

She pried her hand away from Violet's too tight embrace and accepted the cup with shaking hands. "Thank you, Carson. Sorry about the mess."

Carson gave her a brief nod and backed away, as the door opened and one of under-housemaids scurried in to clear away the broken bits. Carson pointed to the floor and snapped his fingers. The maid scooped up the mess, and life at Downton Abbey went on, as usual.

"As I was saying," Violet said, "I'm not certain the Bradshaw's will be able to cope. Lady Bradshaw has been none too… calm… " she tossed her head in a knowing way, "of late, I hear. With both their sons away in the war…"

Lady Mary lifted her cup and sipped at the fresh brew, yet somehow tasted ashes.

000

Matthew jumped into a shell hole, and found himself next to William Mason. In the next hole over Speakes and his Lewis Gun team were lifting their gun and moving forward.

"I won't be sorry when this war's over!" the private shouted at Matthew as shellfire rained down, throwing clods of dirt everywhere, making their ears ring, and pounding their chests with hammer blows. The two men ducked their heads as the fertile soil of France was blasted about.

They stood as one and moved ahead, during a brief break in the shelling. William was one step ahead as Matthew climbed from the crater.

Matthew was moving forward, his head down when he heard the shell whistling down.

William moved into action, dropped his rifle and stood straight up, blocking Matthew's advance with an outstretched arm. "Sir!" the boy shouted selflessly and threw himself backward into Matthew as the round hit a few yards in front of them.

The advance continued and enemy trenches were overrun. German soldiers threw up their hands in surrender as the Tommies yelled at them "Hande hoche!" Hands up!

Most did so but some fought on with tragic consequences. More rifle fire and three grenades silenced the machine guns. The survivors yelled out "Ich surrender!" falling on their knees, hands held high or on their heads.

In a few minutes, the creeping barrage was chewing through the rearmost trenches and the enemy fire stopped, at last in this section of the line.

A cheer broke out amongst the Tommies as their enemies kneeled in the dirt. They allowed German medics to treat their wounded, but there weren't that many as the barrage had taken so many.

Cropper sat on a stump and surveyed the scene. Not bad, he thought, not that bad at all. He swilled water from his canteen around his tongue and some of the terrible fatigue lifted from him.

"Sergeant! Sergeant!" someone screamed.

He turned and saw their own medics waving to him from a hundred feet back. "It's Captain Crawley sir! He's been hit!" came a panicked cry.

Cropper ran back and looked down at the scene. Mason lay on top of the Captain, having been hit as well. "Christ. Bloody hell." The men lay as if dead, their arms flung out, with no obvious injuries.

A medic looked up from the hole, now kneeling by the fallen. "Mason's alive!" He bent his head and listened at the head of Matthew. "The Captain as well."

Tim Speakes came running back when he heard the bad news. "Cropper?"

"Yes," the Sergeant spit tobacco juice. "It's true."

Speakes pulled off his helmet and flung it away. "Damn! Damn it. Bloody waste!"

"It's all a waste, you know." Cropper stood watching as the senseless bodies were lifted onto stretchers. "Careful there! You lot, help them!"

Most of the men, who were still alive and standing, except for a few guarding prisoners, now clustered around the crater. Young and old, replacements and veterans, the soldiers stood stricken in the mud as the Captain and Mason were reverently carried off to an aid station.

"All right, men!" said Cropper with irritation. "Back to work lads!"

Speakes picked up his helmet and wiped mud from it. "Right. Back to the bloody war," he said in disgust.

"At least they're alive." Cropper observed. He looked across the torn up battle field and wiped his face. "And we're not done yet. All right lads! Form up! We got things to do." He'd miss the Captain. He was a good man and Mason as well. He looked back at No Man's land where so many of their men fell. "Damn."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23 – Fog

"Bring them over here," a voice said. "Gentle, gentle!"

"Sorry, doctor."

"Bring the officer first."

The stretcher bearers lowered the stretcher, bearing the body of Matthew Crawley, and when it was set on the trestles, Doctor Albert Pym went to work.

He checked the eyes, which fluttered as he pulled the lids open. The blue eyes roved about, not tracking his. "Steady. You're at hospital."

The eyes closed slowly and the mouth twitched. Pym noted superficial wounding, shell fragments and splinters forced into the face and limbs; evidence of a near blast, one eyebrow singed. The medics cut off the uniform and he gingerly felt the limbs and he found no bleeding at least not external.

The bearers carried another one in. "They sent this other one with him, doctor. A private. They said they got blown up together. They're Manchesters."

Matthew heard a gravelly voice break through the fog that encased him. He felt trapped somehow, weighed down, and as he tried to make a fist his fingers felt like wood. He heard someone speaking to a doctor. Was he talking about him?

The doctor bent over the second case. "If these two were blown up, it was a very near thing. No major wounds, but there is likely hidden damage." The second soldier, a private, had more serious singeing, a few more tiny shrapnel bits on the man, but not many. Pym gently moved the limbs and pried off the boots. The second soldier had even less reaction to his prodding than the first. "At least no major injuries," he paused as someone screamed from the surgery tent. At least these two had all their limbs.

Matthew heard that! That was a scream! He started, shocked into action from the fog that surrounded him. With the greatest of effort, he managed to bend his elbow, raising his hand.

"Hello there," said a gentle voice, a man's, and someone took his hand.

Matthew tried to speak. "Wh… where?" he croaked out.

"Field hospital, Captain." The voice said to him.

Matthew pried his eyes open a little and saw a vast white cloud overhead. "Te… tent?" he stuttered out.

The doctor patted his shoulder. "You're not badly hurt. We were told you took a close shell blast. You may have a concussion and you have a huge bruise coming up on your lower back."

Matthew closed his eyes and the darkness rose to take him. He struggled. "Craw…ley."

Pym crouched down. "Yes, Captain Crawley. We know."

There was something he needed to know. Now what was it? "The battle?"

"Battle's over Captain. You rest." The doctor had seen this before; disorientation and confusion. If the man had a serious brain injury, it would show up soon, but there was nothing he could do about it. He turned back to the other one.

Pym realized the private was tall, almost six feet; his feet hanging off the stretcher. He had a square jaw and blue eyes; a handsome young man. He brushed back the hair from the face. Pym examined the patient more closely and found similar injuries to the captain, but this one was wheezing slightly. His stethoscope told him what he feared. The lungs were full of crackles and rattles. Pym prodded the chest, but he didn't feel any broken ribs, a miracle they were intact.

The doctor took stock. This one, the tall boy, a beautiful boy, had blast lung. The fine tissues were likely crushed by the force of a shell blast. He listened again to the chest sounds. If the boy survived it would be a miracle. The captain seemed to be greatly concussed. Time would tell if either would live.

Matthew drifted, half-awake or less, and he felt someone lifting his head. They wiped his face and neck.

"Captain?"

"Yeah… I'm here," he answered. "Water?"

They unknown person trickled water onto his lips. He sucked the precious liquid down and it felt like fine wine.

The voice went on. "We're just moving your legs and arms, to make sure they're not broken."

Matthew felt them flex his arms and shoulders. He lay there too tired to even care.

"Alright so far. Now for the legs," the voice told him.

He waited in the cloud that held him. And waited some more. He heard more voices; muttering, raised voices.

"Captain Crawley!"

"Yes," he answered wearily. He recognized the doctor's voice. Pine was it? Doctor Pine, that was it.

"Can you move your legs?"

"What? Of course," he said. Matthew slowly lifted his hand.

"Not the hand. Legs. Go on. Whenever you're ready."

Matthew lowered his hand and he felt his fingers clutch at the canvas on the cot.

"Crawley! Crawley!"

"What?" he answered confused; still in a daze.

"Stay with me, man! I'm just going to be pushing and poking. Not to hurt you. Tell me when you feel something."

"Right," Matthew said with annoyance. "Go on."

"Can you feel that?" the doctor asked the man who was still dazed. Pym had seen this before. He ran his finger from the hips downward, thighs front and back, knees, shins and ankles. At last the toes, but by then Pym knew it was bad; very bad.

Matthew waited patiently, but as time went on he grew irritated with this game. "Go on!"

The doctor came right up to his ear after a few hours or so it seemed to Matthew. "I'm sorry Captain. Very sorry," he whispered and touched his arm.

Sorry? What was he sorry for? Matthew didn't understand what the man meant. He fell back into the cloud where he was before, but now saw flashes of light, explosions, screams, the noise of rifles and shells. He watched Moore and Nicol fall once more. Taylor went, along with that young soldier from Manchester, the new man. They went down and stayed down. The images got darker and he felt like he was falling down a well. The nightmare images grew stronger and louder. The staccato sounds of the Vickers and the Lewis guns rattled away and turned into the horrible sound of someone choking and coughing.

There was a bustle nearby; he sensed that; people were rushing about. Matthew cracked open an eye and turned his head. He saw tousled light brown hair on the next cot. He saw them working on the man, turning him, pounding on the soldier's back. A basin appeared, held by someone, and the man on the stretcher cot coughed up dark brown blood, followed by painful gasps.

Matthew turned his head a little more, and through the fog that held him like a vise, he finally realized he was watching William Mason retching up old blood.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24 – Evacuation

The Royal Army Medical Corps machinery fell into gear, if fact it was always running, already working to treat the sick, the wounded, and the maimed. Sick transferred to a base hospital for eventual redeployment. The wounded, also to a base hospital, or back home, depending upon their medical condition and the probability of being returned to duty. The maimed, if able to travel safely, were shipped to Great Britain, and disbursed to hospitals near their homes, generally.

Unbeknownst to them, Matthew and William had already been passed from their unit's regimental aid post to an advanced dressing station, and thence to a field hospital, where Doctor Pym tended to them. The men had traveled by stretcher bearer, wheeled stretcher, then by motor ambulance. Ten miles to the Rear, where even here the fire of artillery echoed faintly, vast supply dumps and marshaling areas were established.

The hospital actually sat in a few houses, and a myriad of tents, where miraculously a few trees survived the shelling over the years.

Doctor Pym sat in his quarters, which he shared with another doctor, who was finishing cases in surgery at that moment. He was writing up a few selected cases for a monograph he planned to write on concussion and trauma.

_Mason, William –Private – Shell blast. Concussed brain, moderate first degree burning and singeing of the face, hands, and neck. A number of small shrapnel pieces, already removed, from the chest and face. Moderate bruising of anterior body surface. Wheezes upon exhalation and inhalation. A quantity of dried, but no new blood, has been coughed up at times. Patient is alert at times, others moans incoherently (seems to be a girl's name). Not expected to live, based on general lung stridor and body pallor. Bases of nails blue to purple, lips not as much, toes cool. Perfect example of poor gas exchange. Blast lung._

Pym stopped writing and thought about the boy. Mason reminded him of his nephew, another William, his third sister's boy. The same age, but in the Royal Navy who was somewhere in the Mediterranean, he believed. Being excellent at mathematics, he was a gunnery mathematician on a Royal Navy cruiser. His William had the same look about the face, the same hair and eyes. Pym had not heard of his nephew for some time, and neither his sister. In her last letter she was frantic for news, pestering her older brother to 'do something.' He sighed at the thought; the anguish of so many parents and families weighed on his shoulders. He went back to his notebook.

_Crawley, Matthew – Captain - Shell blast. Concussed brain, moderate first degree burning and singeing of the face, hands, and neck. A few shrapnel pieces remove from chest and face. Some bruising of the anterior body surface. No broken bones. Severe concussion. Extremely severe bruising of the lumbar region – blunt impact trauma. No sensation or movement below the fifth lumbar vertebra. Catheterization drew off urine free of blood. Severe pain upon awaking - ½ grain of morphia given._

Pym sipped at a brandy and thought hard. These two should be shipped off. Mason would die and soon. Crawley, if given supportive therapy may live. He made a decision.

"Parker!" he shouted and his aide came in. "Get Captain Crawley, Private Mason, and the others on the Severe list off to embarkation. There's a hospital train forming up at 9 tomorrow. Hop to it!"

"Yes, sir," Parker said. "I think that's about twenty, is it?"

"Twenty six, with these two I've added. Might as well send the poor devils home."

"Right. Think they'll make it? Home, I mean?"

"Some won't. But the rest… time will tell. Carry on Parker."

"Yes, sir." The man left.

Pym drummed his fingers on the table, reflecting on the long journey ahead of the men. The train was dispatched twice a day to Calais, where hospital ships were waiting to carry the men home. He sighed at the thought. _Home_. He'd twice turned down leave to stay where he was needed, and the one time he did take leave, he could not wait to return, as he knew men needed him.

Pym stood and walked through the wards. He paused at each bed, checking the notes written, speaking to the nurses and medical attendants. It was quiet this evening, the patients mostly sleeping or drugged. The surgery tent was now empty, a miracle at that. But the second round push at the front would start in a few days and then they'd be awash in the dying and the wounded.

He steeled himself as he walked through the head wound ward. There the nursing sisters walked quietly, their rubber soled shoes silently on the wood flooring. These men, over 90%, would not be going anywhere soon. When they were stable enough, they may be moved to a base hospital near the port. An Anglican priest, Vicar Makin was making his rounds, praying over each man.

Pym valued the ministers, as they comforted the patients, and the hospital staff as well. Some of the staff seemed to be immune to the carnage about them, being buoyed, like Pym, by trying to heal. Others cracked in a few days, or seemed to be handling things very well, then they blew up. They'd lost two orderlies just yesterday.

At Mason's bed, still by his Captain's as Mason had protested when they tried to separate them, the boy opened his eyes as Pym stood at the foot.

"Doctor?" the child wheezed. "How am I doing?" he coughed, half strangling.

Pym knelt down and took his hand. "Well… you're doing better."

The boy looked hard into his face and read between the lines. "Ah. Like that, then."

The doctor squeezed the soldier's hand. How many times had he lied like that? How many times? Pym released the young man's hand. "We're sending you home."

"Thanks. Thanks for that." He coughed a few times. "Really want to see my girl."

"That would be, who?"

"Daisy," William smiled. "Daisy." The soldier turned his head to the litter next over. "How's Captain Crawley?"

"Injured," gulped the doctor. "He's going home as well. Tomorrow."

The boy nodded. "Thanks Doctor," he said and then closed his eyes in exhaustion. William felt himself falling into sleep, and in those few seconds of twilight awareness drifted over memories of Downton Abbey – the servant's hall, the house and grounds, the Lord and Lady, Mr. Carson, Thomas, and all the rest - finally coming to the face of Daisy Robinson, who smiled at him.

Pym left the tent, walked across the compound, and passed a motor ambulance convoy bringing more men in from the front, in a seemingly endless stream. The doctor went to the one of the few trees, grasped the rough trunk and bowing his head, prayed for strength.

**Author's notes:**

**Stridor – Wheezing during breathing from obstruction of the bronchi and their branches.**

**RAMC – Royal Army Medical Corps had a vast system in place by mid-war to evaluate, treat, and evacuate the wounded from the Front. The system of litters, carts, motor ambulances, hospital trains and ships, and medical transport trains in Great Britain was as described here. Within a few days of a soldier being wounded or killed his status was telegraphed home to families, just as in the TV production.**


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25 – Communications

Electrons traveled through the core of a copper wire, hemmed in by a wrapping of insulation, and the pulse of electricity carried a message. The message traveled from France, to Dover on an undersea cable, sped along the southeast country side, took a dogleg along the Thames, and tapped itself out at a desk in the War Office. A Signals private printed the message from the recording telegraph, the Vibroplex, and carefully typed out names on a form.

He hated this duty. The listing of names of dead and wounded bothered at him. He'd much rather be over there, than stuck in this musty office, but a gimpy leg from a training accident stranded him in London. This shift was more of the same; another batch of fine men and boys totally written off or injured. He initialed this dispatch then dropped it into a wire basket.

A lowly private came in every few minutes and emptied the basket. He sorted through the forms and distributed them to appropriate offices. The wounded transport and killed in action form went down the hall, where a Signals Officer cut the form into strips, distributing the names into ten smaller lists. Other typists scurried about, cross indexing the names with units. Those were further divided into unit lists where harried clerks scurried about pulling file cards with personal information.

From there, individual forms went downstairs to the Master Telegraph Office, where men, and a few women, plied their hands sending the messages on. Some held tales of mortal finality while others gave some dim ray of hope.

000

Molesley was woken by a tapping, which progressed to a gentle knocking, and then into a pounding. He pushed up from his bed in the quiet house and rushed downstairs carrying a lit candle while tying his dressing gown, as his slippered feet pounded down the steps, Mrs. Byrd stuck her head out of her room, holding her own candle. "What's that?" she called after him.

"Someone's at the door!" he called up the stairs. He paused at the front door, tried to smooth the hair on his head and with as much style as possible opened it.

The young lad from the telegraph office at the train station stood before him, rubbing his eyes.

"What's all this about?"

"Here," the boy of about thirteen, said. "Telegram for Mrs. Crawley."

"Now? At this hour?" he pulled his head back inside and peered at the grandfather clock. "Don't you know it's two in the AM?"

The boy held out a sealed envelope. "Look, I just got this handed to me. It just came in. Take it."

"But Mrs. Crawley, she isn't here! She's in France!"

The boy yawned. "Not my problem, then. Is it?" He pushed the envelope into the valet's hands, mounted his bicycle and crunched off over the gravel.

The light of the full moon shown down on the house as a stunned Molesley held the sealed envelope. He pushed the door closed and locked it, then held the envelope at arm's length wondering what to do.

Mrs. Byrd crept around the corner. "What's happened?"

Molesley held out the envelope and felt his earth move. "What shall we do with it? It's for Mrs. Crawley! I can't just open it, can I?"

Mrs. Byrd took it from him and felt a cold chill as she touched it. "I think you should go up to the big house; see his Lordship. Tonight." The cook laid the offending paper on a table and rubbed her arms. "Can't be good."

Molesley reached for the door and then stopped himself. "My God! I'd better get some clothes on."

000

Molesley stood rock still in the library of Downtown Abbey. He'd marched straight up from the village, dreading being the bearer of news, which must be urgent.

A hallboy had answered his tap at the servant's door, and from there Mr. Carson had appeared in nightclothes, and inside of a few hectic minutes the entire household was gathered. Lord and Lady Grantham stood there before him in the midst of their daughters, all in nightclothes and dressing gowns while the housestaff did the same in the Great Hall.

Molesley felt very upset, what with waking them and what must be the grim news the telegram bore, so he stuttered out his apologies.

Lord Grantham gazed about the room silently, holding the envelope, then slit the top and extracted the letter. The news he read was not good; not good at all as Mr. Matthew had been wounded and was being brought back to the village to Dr. Clarkson's hospital.

The women all gasped and he saw the Earl himself sway a bit. The Countess lifted sad eyes and stared at her oldest.

Seeing that almost made Molesley drop in his tracks, but he gulped hard and kept his composure.

He had done his duty, to Mrs. Crawley, to Matthew, and to the Grantham's. The Earl assured Molesley he had done the right thing. That was important to the valet cum butler, and as he walked back to the village, he was comforted by that fact.

He had done his duty, yet all the same, he wrung his hands in anguish over the man he had dressed for some months. And he felt like he had failed Matthew and Mrs. Crawley in some strange way.

000

As her father read the telegram aloud Mary felt like her world collapse about her. "He's alive, that's the important thing," she heard her father say through an odd roaring in her ears. "They're to bring him to the hospital in the village."

Matthew wounded? What did that mean, she wondered? Had he been shot, gassed, burned, or blown up? What might these things have done to Matthew? The thought of his handsome face and slim body being _hurt_ was agony to her soul.

She stood in a fog, totally in shock, her heart beating in her throat and her breath went in and out in little gulps.

Her mother and sister Edith discussed what to do next, while her father arbitrated their next moves. He would call the War Office in the morning, while Edith would go see William Mason's father, in case the footman had been injured as well or worse.

The family dispersed, each heartbroken, but Mary stopped and took her father's hand. "No matter what you find, tell me. Hold nothing back."

Her father tenderly kissed her cheek and she slowly made her way back to her room, knowing that with the reception of this one simple message, nothing might ever be the same. After she closed her bedroom door, she pulled Matthew's picture from the hiding place under her mattress and falling to her knees, sobbed bitterly and silently.

At that moment she knew that the war - this _horrible stupid war_ - had finally attacked her world.

"Please God?" she whimpered. "Please? Let him live?"

Then Lady Mary Crawley, eldest daughter of the Earl of Grantham, groveled on the fine wool carpet and cried her eyes out.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26 –Seaside

The motor ambulances bore their burden to the railhead west of Amiens where careful hands swiftly transferred litters and walking wounded from the trucks to the hospital train. A careful list had been made of who was to be left on their litters, and this included William Mason and Matthew Crawley. In spite of the pre-dawn move, the orderlies of the Medical Corps swiftly dispatched the train. Some soldiers, once healed might come this way again serving His Majesty's Army. Others would be treated, healed and released, and for others this was the last ride.

Calais port was filled with all the hustle and bustle of an army, or rather armies. The Yanks were here and in force, their green uniforms clashing with British khakis and French blue and black. American soldiers, arms, and supplies poured to the Continent through Calais and Le Havre, adding to the crowded and crushing conditions. Carts, trucks, men, materiel, made the French port seem a festival and Mardi Gras all at once, while tending to the very serious business of war.

Germans were also mixed in. These, the vanquished, unloaded trucks and stores, moving purposely through the throngs in long work gangs. The German soldiers had volunteered for the work. Sitting in camp was boring some felt, and though they were helping their former enemies, they chose to work where they might help, if not a foreign nation, then foreign peoples.

Johannes Kreutzer carefully carried the head of a litter bearing a man. The man was too much in pain to know he was being borne by a Bosche, and neither turned his head nor raised a voice to question why he was between two soldiers clad in German grey.

Johan shifted the weight on his hands, wincing at the blisters that had formed yesterday. The stretchers the day before were old and the handles splintered. He was paying the price now as the raw flesh was rubbed further.

The man at the other end of the litter was a German medic, a short man by the name of Markus Grobner. He had seen the motor ambulances and was the first one to ask about outside work.

A British Major had scoffed, laughed aloud at him. "You're serious? You must be joking? A bloody Hun carrying his Majesty's soldiers?" His voice was full of derision.

"Jahwohl, mein Herr." The short medic squared his shoulders. "Sir. I am, erh, vas, a dentist. I eased pain. Can I not do the same? You haff many – many wounded. Can I and others, not help?"

"Irregular. This might be a trick. Is that it?" The Major rose from behind his desk and blustered at the unshaven prisoner. "You'd try to escape!"

"Nein, mein Herr! Tricks I have none. On my honor as a working man, a dentist, sir - let me help."

It took some doing and a shortage of able bodied men on the docks. _To do the trick._

"Volunteers? Why would the Hun help, us?" the Major's superior asked.

"They are medical men, Colonel. They're bored. At least they can carry litters; move medical supplies."

The Colonel stood at the window of the Army's port office where he could see the seething mass of men and supplies coming off the ships at the docks.

"Fine, then. All right. But you tell those Bosche bastards that if any man runs – they'll be shot."

"Doubt they'd do that sir. Where would they go?"

000

A hospital train arrived on a siding at the docks having been shunted there by special order. This train carried two carriages of soldiers all on litters, too ill or wounded to be removed from them. The Medical Dispatcher had sent this train as close as possible to the hospital ship, _HMS Grace_, to save another bumpy ride in an ambulance.

The _Grace_ was a originally a Royal Mail ship, having been converted to a hospital ship as she had wide corridors and decks, admirably suited for litters and wounded men. She was painted white with green stripes, and even at this early hour in port, her green and white recognition lamps burned brightly. Early in the war, she had been stopped by a U-boat and had boarded her but being the bearer of wounded she was permitted to continue.

The Captain checked the chronometer and tapped on the barometer as the mercury was falling. "Tell those doc apes to get a move on, or the tides and a storm may bollox us up!"

The order went down through the ship to the docks and a squad of volunteer litter bearers had just arrived. A harried corporal and five privates trotted them over to the train, now braking on the dock.

"Let's go, you lot! Get a bloody move on!" the corporal screamed then lit a cigarette.

The Germans fell to work and carefully taking charge of the stretchers, and in a snaking line, took them to the gangway of the _Grace_.

The privates stood well back, their Enfield rifles on their shoulders, yet each had been carefully told what to do. _Shoot to kill._

The corporal shook his head as the twenty Germans PWs carried their human cargoes. A navy dockhand surveyed the scene win amazement. "Bloody German bastards! Shoot 'em up and carry 'em up! That it?"

"Nah. Most of this lot here were medics. See that one?" the corporal pointed to Grobner. "He was a dentist!"

The navy rating sniffed, seeing the stretcher cases go aboard, some missing arms and legs. "I don't think any of _these_ will be needed their _teeth_ filled," he said with sarcasm. The words froze in his throat as he saw one of the patients with his lower face bandaged, obviously missing a good portion of his jaw. "Jesus. Sorry mate."

"You see a lot in this war, don't you?" The corporal puffed on the fag then threw the butt into the water and stalked away.

000

The train was slowly emptied as walking wounded limped, staggered, and lurched aboard. A few were pushed aboard in wheelchairs, the rest on litters.

Johan smelled the cigarette smoke and hungered for one. There weren't many smokes available in the prisoner of war camp by the port's edge, but yesterday the Tommy corporal had given them a whole pack to share. The last 'cigarette' he had at home had tasted like a mixture of straw and horse manure, as it likely was. But here, he breathed the smoke deeply, the Brits had _American_ tobacco now. Guns, men, bullets, food, _and_ cigarettes. It was no wonder the Central Powers were losing the war.

He didn't know much that about America but he'd been to New York twice. The city was huge; _huge_ with possibilities and people. The beer was great, the food inexpensive, and the women were pretty. He inhaled the spent smoke of the cigarette and smiled at the memory of that far off place. His thoughts were interrupted by a shout.

"You!" a British voice yelled at him. "Both of you! Get over here! No lolly-gagging!"

Johan and Markus trotted back to the train to take the next litter case.

This one was tall one and heavy! Johan and Markus grunted as the weight fell on their arms and this time Johan had the feet. They carefully made their way along the dock, avoiding other scurrying men, coils of cable and rope, and piles of cargo being loaded into snorting trucks.

The sun rose higher and for the first time Johan got a good look, a very good look, at the man they were carrying. This one was very tall, had blondish hair, blue eyes, and a square chin. His face was creased with small scabs and his lips were strained and blue as he labored for breath.

Kreutzer concentrated again on the face. He knew this man. Yes, it _was_ the private! "Private! Do you remember… me? You took me to ze cages… ze… PW camp?" he said to the man.

William Mason looked up at the man carrying the foot of the litter. "Yeah… I know you. You're Johannes?" he coughed and cleared his throat.

"Johan. Kreutzer. I vas lost, jah?"

"Yeah."

"Tommy. What happened?"

"Mortar," William gasped. "I guess. Got the captain too."

"Gott no!" Johan yelled.

William smiled up at the man who was now carrying him up the gangplank. "It's all right. I'm… going home," he coughed out.

Johan smelled the scent of the docks; tarry wood, cordage, steam and oil. And one other smell, the smell of the sea. He inhaled it greedily. "Jah. Home… is a good zing! Yes!" To the former sailor the sea smelled like home.

William laughed and grunted and closed his eyes. "Home," he whispered.

The German prisoner of war tried to smile at the wounded man. "Jah. Home. You vill be besser at home."

William closed his eyes. "Yes," he whispered.

**Author's notes:**

**Hospital ships – Some hospital ships were converted Royal Mail ships and others were altered passenger vessels.**

**U-boats – The U-54 did intercept a hospital ship in 1917, stopped and boarded her, then let her go on her way.**


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27 – Pride

Lady Mary dressed rather causally the next morning - no elaborate hair, no necklace, simple teardrop earrings, flat shoes, and she slipped into a grey dress from two seasons ago.

"What are you doing?" her father asked her perching his left fist on his hip. He'd heard news of Mary and had to speak to her himself to confirm it.

She noticed he was in his military uniform today even though it was mostly honorary. "I thought I'd take some things down to the hospital. Then I can sit with him when he arrives. I've read somewhere that it's very important not to leave them alone when they're first wounded. That way no sign goes unnoticed." She went on tucking things into a small bag. "They can't spare a nurse to sit with them all the time. So that's what I'll do."

The Earl of Grantham could understand their youngest daughter, Sybil who was always pushing far beyond where her older sisters would go, wanting to work in hospital and so forth. But her older sister as well?

Robert looked very intently at his eldest and once again was reminded that Mary was not like her mother or him. She was a strange amalgam of the two – part Cora and part Robert – and also a dash of pure Mary.

Cora was different in her own way. Different in birth, language, the way she thought and spoke and he thank God for it. Just some of the many reasons he loved her so.

And what of himself? Robert pondered that question. He was steadfast, or tried to be, as well as conservative and careful – traditional. He'd told Matthew some time back the he didn't own Downton. In fact no one did. The Earl of Grantham had told Matthew that he was merely a caretaker, for future generations. So he had to be _careful_, slow, and conservative.

Yet Mary had her _own_ quiet ways and she _did_ understand duty and sacrifice, far more than Sybil or Edith ever would. It was on Mary that _all_ their hopes had been placed years back; the eldest daughter who was fated to be wed to an heir or so the strategy went.

One of those heirs was now dead in the North Atlantic somewhere in the wreck of the _Titanic_ and the other… was wounded in battle. Robert gulped at that thought. Matthew Crawley whom he considered like the son he never had, at least as far as love, support and devotion. He was extremely glad when it appeared that Mary and Matthew were to be married.

But Cora's pregnancy, her miscarriage, that lost baby boy –he winced slightly – had bollixed up their wedding plans.

He sighed recalling the day of the garden party. The day it all changed. It was August 4, 1914 when Britain declared war on Germany, the day after that nation invaded Belgium. That was also the day that Matthew rejected Mary and all she represented.

According to what Cora had found out, Matthew felt too ill used by Mary over the baby – as if a boy he would have been superfluous. Mary's dithering about had finally broken Matthew's resolve to wait and lo those many months he did wait. But at the party things happened. He broke and so did she. Poor ducks – the both of them.

Now, he thought ruefully, with Mary engaged to Sir Richard and with Matthew wounded and yet to be brought to hospital, things had gotten even _more_ complicated and confused.

Robert watched his daughter as she prepared to go and nurse the man she might have married – the one she had once said she loved – but did _not_ give the man a willing answer for a marriage.

Nursing. Sybil he could understand, she had even taken that nurses' course over in York. Perhaps even Edith, with her helping attitude of late. But Mary?

Mary the cool and calm girl, who might have ice-water running in her veins, felt things deeply, too deeply at times. And she kept it bottled up.

The Earl straightened as he knew that he was wrong about Mary. That side of her, the calm side was the illusion of a swan serenely cruising on the pond, yet with her feet madly paddling away underneath. Mary _did_ feel – all too keenly.

He sighed silently and kept his lips tight, yet he wanted to hold his daughter and tell her that things would be all right. But, he sighed again, they never would be.

Robert stared at his daughter's back as she packed the small bag herself. He knew that Anna, the housemaid, should have been here to help. Yet Mary was packing the bag _herself_. Good for her. "You're going to the hospital, then?" he asked.

"Yes. No word yet. But I thought I should be there, when Matthew's brought in."

"Good idea. Your mother's written to Lavinia."

Mary turned. "Oh, good," she said genuinely. "I'm glad mama thought of that. She needs to know, so she can come too."

Robert felt his face take on a mild surprise.

Mary turned her head more to face him. "What?" she asked as he stood there and his expression must have given his thoughts away.

"Nothing," he said, yet his heart was bursting with pride.

Pride in his daughter and the way she was standing up to this challenge. Pride that Mary would do the right thing, no matter of her broken engagement with Matthew. Pride that she would be a gracious person to Lavinia and to Matthew and that she would help care for his broken body, if it came to that.

Would everything be all right? he asked himself. Cora's fortune was tied irrevocably to the estate and the Abbey. There was nothing to be done about it. When Matthew married Lavinia, or even if he didn't, the money and title would be his.

Robert looked quickly about the room – one of many of Downton Abbey. He felt the weight of responsibility and the ages weighing on his shoulders and soul. He would have loved to go to the London house and get away from all this, but that would be worse. The capital was filled with war talk, men, and activity.

He looked at his daughter's questioning face. "I suppose you should go."

"Yes," she said, picking up her bag and touching his arm as she marched from the room.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28 – Hospital

Tom Branson drove Lady Mary to the village straight to the hospital door. He alighted and opened the door for her. "Milady."

"Thank you Branson."

"You're welcome. Mr. Matthew isn't here yet, is he?"

"No. Not yet." She smiled, "but I hope he's here today."

Branson looked at the ground then up at her pale face. "He's a good man, in my opinion."

"Thank you. I think so too." Her voice caught for a moment and then she said, "He's a better man…"

Branson took her hand. "We all think very highly of him. You know that."

Lady Mary looked very deep into the chauffer's eyes. She saw compassion, concern, and something more.

"Mary… milady, excuse me." He let go of her hand and closed the automobile door. "If you need anything… call the house. I'll bring it down straight away."

Mary collected herself. "Thank you, Branson. I shall."

Branson gave her a brave smile. "He'll pull through, I know it. I'm certain it's quite hard to kill a solicitor," he said and then he winked.

Mary entered the hospital, buoyed by that strange final comment.

Tom Branson caught a glimpse of Lady Mary in the mirror when he turned the motor to go back to Downton. His lips set themselves into a hard line as he watched her sad figure go into the building. "There's entirely too much sadness in the house these days." He sighed. "And entirely too much sadness in those who live there." He started to whistle an old Irish tune, one his gran taught him, as he motored back to Downton.

About the time he drove up the drive to the house, as far in the distance, he thought he heard a train's whistle blow.

000

Doctor Richard Clarkson saw Lady Mary come down the hall and he braced himself. "Lady Mary. We _don't know_ if Matthew will come in today. I told your father that on the telephone, when he called."

"Yes, I know," she looked around. "But…"

The doctor took her elbow and took her to the side to make way for a soldier on crutches. "When the soldiers get here… well, it's never pretty."

She gave him a level stare. "Do you think…" her voice broke, "I could stay away?"

Clarkson looked away for a moment. Was it his place to tell her of the terrible things that could be done to the human body by simple accident, let alone bullet or explosive shell? He himself had to run outside when he saw his first case of gangrene, but that was only a farm accident, when a boy had been crushed by the wheel of a farm cart. He had to saw off the shattered foot of that young boy years back – that was bad enough. But bullets shattered bones into tiny fragments, driving pieces in all directions, while any cloth or dirt was likewise forced into the tissues. And the infection after days of poor treatment, he shuddered.

He had no idea what injuries Matthew Crawley might have suffered, but they would find out when he got there. He looked at the strained pale face of Mary and felt his heart give a little. How many girls – women – were waiting just as Lady Mary was? How many waiting to find out if their loved one, yes - _loved one_ - had no arms, or legs, or face? Or worse, was coming home to die?

"Lady Mary, no, of course not. That's not what I mean." He paused when he knew there would be no reasoning with the girl. "Well, then. Why don't you come into my office? There's a pot of tea and you'll be more comfortable, while you wait." He smiled.

Mary allowed herself to be escorted into the office and there was tea. So as the hospital bustled around her, she sipped at tea, which to her tongue had no taste, and she tried to be very, very brave.

000

In a short while Sybil came in wearing her nurse's uniform and found Mary slumped in Clarkson's office. "I knew you'd be here."

"Where else would I be? I… have… to be here," her older sister told her in a quavering voice.

"Right. I'll be working but rest assured that I'll help when…" she touched her sister's shoulder gently.

Mark grasped her fingers as one might when drowning.

Sybil bent and kissed her sister's cheek. "Oh, Mary."

Mary accepted the gesture then pushed her away. "No. No," she said sadly. "We have to think about Matthew. Any word of William?"

"Granny and Edith have headed off to Leeds infirmary. Edith said that granny had the bit in her teeth. You know how she is."

Mark smiled at that. "I'd not want to get into Violet's way."

They both looked up with a start when the train whistle announced its arrival at the village station.

Hand in hand they stood in the hall and awaited developments.

Shorty motor ambulances began to arrive in the street outside and stretchers began to be carried in as other men limped in on crutches.

Sybil pointed to the ward across the hall. "They'll bring him there. There are open beds in here," she directed. "Go through." She took Mary's elbow and escorted her into the room.

Mary stood near the stove, in spite of Clarkson's protestations, and there in awful expectation and quivering fear watched as Matthew was carried in. She reminded herself that she was a volunteer and sometime volunteers didn't exactly know what they were getting themselves into.

He was flat on his back and unresponsive. The gray striped pyjamas he wore were clean, but the man himself was unshaven, dirty, his hair filthy, and he smelled. His eyes were blackened and his eyebrows had tiny cuts along with his cheeks and hands.

Mary managed to stifle a gasp and to her credit did not cry out as she helped Sybil and a military nurse transfer him from the litter to a bed. She lifted the tag tied to his shirt and read the awful words: _Probable spinal damage_.

Mary held the tag out to Sybil and felt the floor drop out from under her feet. "It says probable spinal damage."

"That can mean anything." Sybil said. "We'll know more in the morning." She moved a green military blanket, topped by a uniform cap and military badges and a small stuffed dog fell from it. "What's this doing here?" She held the tiny dog towards Mary since she recognized it as her sister's.

"I gave to him for luck. He was probably carrying it when he fell." Mary's voice was clam as she said that but she felt anything but.

Sybil sighed sadly. "If only it had worked."

"He's alive, isn't he?" replied Mary factually.

Sybil stared at her sister, knowing she was correct then they spoke about the need to wash the patient. As Mary went to get warm water, soap and towels, Sybil bent down over the face of the wounded Matthew and pondered what tomorrow would bring.

So the two sisters washed the prostrate and unmoving figure of Matthew, having been shot full of morphine the orderly had said, so they kept their voices low.

Matthew knew he was dreaming and the horrors and dark shapes of the last little bit started to lift. He now felt like he was sinking into a warm tub and very dimly, very dimly, he thought he heard Mary's voice.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29 - Helping

Everyone was sad and upset. The family was wandering about in a fog, all numb until they knew more, so when Edith returned with news from Mr. Mason, William's father, it got worse. It was the day before Mary had her own struggles at Dr. Clarkson's hospital, that Lady Edith and Duchess had their role to play.

Mrs. Hughes was by the door when Lady Edith came in from the carriage house. She held herself as calm as possible, but when she saw the look on Lady Edith's face she knew it was bad. Elsie cried out. "Bad, my lady?"

Lady Edith pulled off her gloves and smoothed them, all in a bid for time, so she could collect her thoughts. She had pulled off on the side of the road driving back to the house and had a good cry. Now she was ready for speech. "Yes it is, I'm afraid."

"Oh dear," said the head housekeeper and her hand flew to her face.

"William was wounded in a shell blast. He and Matthew are both alive, at least we know that much. William's been taken to Leeds Infirmary, as they had room for enlisted men."

"Can't the boy come here, to the village?"

"I don't know. Mr. Mason asked that question and got no real answer. Now excuse me, I need to speak to my father."

"But about William…"

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes," gasped out Edith. "Mr. Mason said he's hurt quite badly. Something with his lungs. The poor man didn't really understand what they told him. He's setting off there at noon to see his son."

"Very bad then?" asked Mrs. Hughes, her Scotch accent coming back when she was upset.

"I assume so."

As Edith walked off, Elsie put her hand to her heart and felt it leaping about. "That poor bairn. Poor bairn."

Mr. Carson rocked back in his office chair as Mrs. Hughes informed him of the sad news. He exclaimed "Good God!" then thought better of it. "I am sorry, Mrs. Hughes. Very, very sorry."

"As are we all, Mr. Carson." She turned to go.

"What can we do?"

"Pray Mr. Carson. We can pray."

Mr. Carson stood up, settled his black coat and shot his cuffs. "That we will." Carson cleared his throat. "He's a good lad, is William."

Elsie stood at the door and looked at the butler, whose craggy face now held a mournful look. "They _all_ are, Mr. Carson. Everyone blessed one of them." Then she left to speak to Daisy and Mrs. Patmore and the rest of the staff.

000

Edith found her grandmother attending her father, and Violet shot into action when she heard the gloomy news that William seemed to be mortally wounded.

The old lady climbed briskly to her feet and with a determined expression on her face said, "Come, Edith! You will drive us to the hospital. Doctor Clarkson, like it or not, will be having _another_ patient. Leeds Infirmary, indeed!"

"Mama," cautioned Robert, "the military has a system…"

Violet whirled on him in a fury. "I'll not leave that boy… miles away… from his father and family."

"To the best of my knowledge, mama, I do not believe that William has any family other than his father," said Robert but as faced his mama knew he had already lost the battle from the way she rolled her eyes.

She stamped her cane, which she carried more for effect than anything. "Robert… do NOT presume to think that that poor child," she sniffed and wiped at her eye, "does NOT have a family." She whipped her head around to her granddaughter. "Well, Edith? What are you standing there for? You like to drive so much, don't you? Get the other motor going and bring it to the front. You don't think I'll go out the back door, do you?"

Edith gave her gran a look of surrender. "No. Of course not." She fled.

"Mother…," Robert started to say.

"No, Robert!" Violet cut him off with a wave. "I have _decided_. Something shall be done. Goodbye." Then she swept from the room.

Robert watched his mother leave and felt entirely left out of the entire proceedings.

000

Violet and Edith were rebuffed soundly by Dr. Clarkson. The two women had pled and wheedled to bring William to the village hospital but to no avail. Clarkson was adamant that he could not and would not do so. He harangued them about rules and regulations and acted every bit the bureaucrat he had become to run the hospital.

Violet swept from the man's office in a fury with Edith trailing behind.

"What shall we do, granny?"

"My dear," Violet began and her bosom heaved with emotion. "We shall make a telephone call. Now where is that new-fangled thing?"

Edith was wide-eyed. She knew that her grandmother was very used to getting her way but had rarely seen her like this. "In the hospital office, I suppose?"

"Of course, my dear." Violet put a smile on her lined face. "They really have _no_ idea, do they?" she smiled wickedly. "Now to the telephone; no matter the Jules Verne experience, I shall use it."

Having made a phone call to _Shrimpy_, a family nickname for a distant cousin, who happened to be a government Minister, the wheels were set in motion. Edith watched in amazement while Violet negotiated, more like directed, and then hung up the telephone earpiece. "_There_," she said in satisfaction. "Now my dear, we go."

Edith followed numbly not quite sure what had just happened.

Violet stomped along the path from the hospital door with Edith at her heels. "That's the problem with these little people, Edith! Give them an ounce of power and it goes to their heads!"

"Well now what, granny? You said _go_. Go where exactly?"

Violet turned her smiling yet determined face on her granddaughter. "Now, Edith, _we_ shall go to Leeds Infirmary to ensure that things are carried out." She cleared her throat. "Carried out to _our_ satisfaction. I hope you don't mind driving a bit further."

Lady Edith knew better than to even say a word so she led granny to the auto.

000

The village grapevine carried the news back to Downton that William was rejected by Dr. Clarkson. The message was by rumor from the butcher's boy, who, although he was a man of thirty, had a club foot. He had gotten it from the hospital cook, who'd heard it from an orderly, who'd been told it by a nurse in the corridor who just happened to be near the doctor's office, that the answer was a resounding NO.

This message caused even more dismay downstairs than the original report of William's injuries.

The servants discussed this in ways and words that if Mrs. Hughes or Mr. Carson heard they would have been severely chastised by the housekeeper and butler.

So Daisy stomped about, her petite frame seething in both anger and alarm.

Mrs. Patmore was working away on luncheon, as Daisy muttered at her elbow.

The cook said "Well aren't you glad that you let him have his little daydream?" She threw that out, mentioning the marriage plans of William. Although those plans, she knew, were his alone and _not_ Daisy's.

"Led him up the garden path, more like. I'm ashamed, so ashamed," Daisy said miserably. She stood with shoulders slumped and jaws trembling.

The cook's heart went soft, so went to the kitchen maid. "Oh, no, my dear," Mrs. Patmore went on. "It doesn't matter now," she said as gently as possible.

She had a hand in forcing Daisy onto William, even arranging the time and place they could meet when the boy had last been at the house. And him all dressed up in soldier's uniform as well. She thought of Archie, her nephew Archie, who'd not ever be coming home. Well at least William would get that much.

The girl shook her head and hot tears were flung from her pink cheeks. "Yes… yes, it does." She'd known the whole engagement was a huge mistake – worse a lie – and as Mrs. Patmore tried to comfort her, she felt her little world coming down around her ears.

000

Violet turned on the charm at Leeds Infirmary when she spoke to the attending doctor.

Doctor Miles was very polite, yet factual. William Mason was dying. His lungs had been burst by a shell blast. He went on. "All we can do is keep him comfortable. That's it, I'm afraid."

As the doctor spoke, Edith looked about the long ward, where men lay in rank and file, most bandaged to some extent, but the smell of carbolic, peroxide, and iodine took her breath away. She'd also seen how blankets were draped over missing legs and arms and that made her queasy. Worst of all were the head injuries clumped together at the far wall. Edith could see that some must have been burned as well since the entire face was wrapped, leaving only a mouth slit and air holes. That sight almost made her faint imagining what had happened to them.

She hugged herself with her arms, standing on weak knees, yet she lifted her head and smiled at the men if they looked at her. These were her countrymen, men and boys, sent off to this ghastly war; a war that had gone on entirely too long. These boys, no these _men _she corrected herself, had paid the terrible price.

She had walked to William's bedside and he was genuinely glad to see her.

"Lady Edith?"

Edith kept smiling, bent down and touched his hand. "William, how are you?"

William tried to rise but Edith pushed him back down. "I'm… fine," he said. "Glad to see dad, let me tell you. Sorry…" he coughed and choked a little. "Seems I can't always get my breath."

She knelt down by the footman. "Don't you worry about a thing. We're taking you to Downton Abbey." She kept her voice soft as she rubbed his arm. She stood and said, "Won't be gone a minute."

She went back to stand by her grandmother. Mr. Mason followed her down the aisle and touched hand to forehead. "Milady. So good of you to come," he said in a half bow.

Violet smiled at the man, who had lost his wife, and now was to lose his only child. "We were just discussing the move. It's all arranged."

"I'm sure he'll get better once he's home," Mr. Mason said with enthusiasm and hope. "He'll have to."

The doctor tried to interrupt the hopeful father with the brutal facts, but Violet stopped the man.

"Let's get him ready," Edith said and led William's father back to his son and out of earshot. Edith talked gently to William and his father, and she felt herself drawn to both, as they acted so humble by her side.

Yet she was humbled in this place filled with the wounded and dying.

Who was she, she wondered? Just a silly girl, who'd never done anything at all. Her mind was awhirl. These men and boys; some would pull through. But William, they were told by the very matter-of-fact doctor, would not. She found a small cloth bag under his bed holding insignia, some tattered letters, and a Bible. The Bible was new.

"This is yours?" she asked.

William nodded. "That's mine. The insignia, they took it off my uniform I guess. The letters were in my pocket in the battle and the Bible a volunteer gave me in London as they put me onto the train." He coughed and wiped his eyes. "That's the last I saw Captain Crawley."

"How was he?" Edith asked dreading the answer.

William squeezed her hand. "He was alive, Lady Edith. He was alive."

Violet set sad, yet practical eyes, on the doctor as she watched Edith lead Mr. Mason back to his son. "Sometimes it is better to let the blow fall by degrees. So that he will be prepared to face the end."

The doctor looked very closely at the Countess. He'd known this lady all of five minutes, although he knew of her and he liked what he had experienced. "If I was dying, I'd want to be home."

"Yes," said Lady Violet. "Yes." She would have liked to retire and have tea, but she and Edith had gotten this far. "Let's do what we can for this boy. At least _this_ one."

The doctor nodded. "He won't last long. But I thank you my lady."

"No need to thank me," she looked about the filled ward. "If only we could help all of them."

"You're doing quite a lot, though."

Violet looked about the ward again. "I hate this war," she whispered, but kept her face unmoved.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30 – Trapped

Mary sat by Matthew's side, just in case he needed something or if something changed.

Matthew lay on the soft bed and dreamed he was elsewhere. He was somehow lying in the sun and the sky above was blue and brilliant. Downton Abbey towered over him for some reason. He knew he wasn't sleeping or even dreaming. He felt trapped in some way and walls of darkness started to build about him. Trapped he was and then the artillery shells started pounding in. He tried to run, to cry out to his men, but nothing happened. He struggled to no avail and just when he felt all was lost, he heard that voice once more.

"Matthew. Matthew. Matthew?"

He groggily opened his eyes and saw Mary leaning over him. "Sorry," he muttered. "Dozed off again."

"Well they have been giving you morphine."

Matthew looked up at Mary and asked, "How's William?"

"Not very well, I'm afraid."

"He tried to save me you know," Matthew said to Mary.

"Yes, I know. Granny and Edith got him moved here and he's at Downton. Edith is caring for him."

"I remember. You told me that this morning." He was too tired to do much more, even to move his hand, but he wished to take Mary's hand in his, if it would keep the darkness away for a while.

Matthew reached with his brain down, down, and down, trying to feel what was there but wasn't. If he'd lost a leg, that would be too obvious. It would be completely gone. But this - absence - of feeling or movement below his waist was troubling.

"Does Dr. Clarkson know what's wrong with my legs?" he asked her.

"Why don't we wait until Lavinia comes back, then we can all talk?"

"Tell me, please," he whispered and before she spoke he knew what she would say.

"Why don't we wait until Lavinia comes back? She's at the house unpacking."

Matthew had been so glad to see Lavinia that day. Her pale face and green eyes seemed to shine below her perfect red hair. He'd called her _my darling _and_ he meant it. _But from the fixed look on Mary's face and her guarded eyes told him volumes.

Clarkson had poked and prodded his back, legs, arms, everywhere. He remembered that. There had been a doctor at the field hospital who'd done that as well. His name was now forgotten in the fog that held him. "This thing with my legs - tell me, please."

"Why don't we wait?"

"Tell me. Before Lavinia comes back. Let me prepare. Tell me," he said as the need to know drove the fear away. "_Tell_ me."

Mary's eye widened slightly. "Dr. Clarkson thinks that there may be trouble with your spine."

"How long to repair?" he asked hopefully.

"You've not been here 24 hours. Hardly time for things to settle down. But the first thing is to regain your strength." Mary smiled slightly but her eyes had a scared look. She had her hands pressed to her legs with such force that it hurt.

"Oh," he said as it immediately sank in. That explained it, all of it; the hushed whispers and the poking and prodding. It all flew into immediate understanding.

"And he says," she went on, "that there's no reason at all that you won't be able to have a completely full and normal life."

Air sucked into his lungs and he knew that if he wasn't careful, when that air turned round to head out of his throat it would come out as a scream. He turned his head a fraction to stare at the ceiling as he knew that one more look at her face would let the scream out. "Just not a very mobile one."

He teared up. "Sorry. I'm going to blubber."

"Would you like some tea? I would. You blubber all you want. Then when Lavinia comes back, you can make plans." Mary rose and Matthew saw her knuckles had gone dead white from forcing them into her lap.

Matthew knew that she was leaving for his sake, as gooey hot tears poured down his face and as she cleared the room, he heard her start to sob.

He lay there very still, stifling his cries, so as not to upset her. But all the same, he thought it very unfair to be trapped like this.

000

Daisy watched them carry William into the house and she was shocked, saddened, and also curious. She didn't understand everything that they said. If William was going to be all right, wouldn't it be better to leave him at hospital? Oh yes. They said that Leeds was too far for his dad to running back and forth all the time and Dr. Clarkson wouldn't let him into the village hospital.

Lady Edith was taking charge and they'd moved William to one of the guest bedrooms on the south wing. She knew the room well, about as well as any of them. The bed was large and plenty of windows to let sunlight in.

So William would get better, right? That question she had asked Mrs. Patmore and it had taken time for the answer to sink in.

Mrs. Patmore took her arms and looked quite hard at her. "Oh Daisy," she started to say and then the cook's face got all sad and everything.

"He won't get better?"

The cook swept her into her beefy arms and held her tight. "No, Daisy. He won't."

"But Lady Edith is staying with him! Why'd she be doin' that if… Oh. It's like that?"

The cook rubbed her back. "Yes, Daisy. It's like_ that_." The cook sniffled a little then let her go. "You'll be all right?"

Daisy stood frozen in fear. "He won't get better."

"No, he won't."

"But he'll live, right?"

The cook lifted red rimmed eyes and shook her head.

Daisy knew that was a moment she'd not forget. That William Mason, second footman of Downton Abbey, a Royal Army vet, who was wounded at the Front, and worse, her fiancé, would not make it.

The cook spoke. "And Daisy, he's asking to see you."

Daisy started to shake her head side to side. "No. No. I'll not go."

"But girl, you have to! You _have_ to."

Had too? Was that what the cook told her? She _had_ to?

The red-haired cook felt that it was a fifty-fifty chance that Daisy would bolt. But she gave the girl credit for what she said next.

"All right." The girl took off her apron and smoothed her dress. "I won't like it. But I'll go. I will." She started to leave the kitchen.

"Good Daisy. Good girl. I knew you'd do the right thing."

Daisy looked back at the cook. "Did you?" she said, her voice shaking. "That's the trouble with all of you! You always think you know what's best for me!" He eyes grew fiery and her voice sarcastic. "Let's push Daisy around one more time!" she added and that comment cut Mrs. Patmore to the quick.

The girl ran up the servant's stairs as Mrs. Patmore wrung her hands. "Oh my God! Did I make this happen?" She looked at the ceiling. "Dear God in heaven. Did I?"

Daisy trotted upstairs fuelled by anger. She was boiling mad and banged a fist on the wall twice on the way. "Pushing me around…"

The anger got her up the stairs, then down the hallway to the door, behind which William lay abed. Yet standing outside the door she had never felt so small. She stuck her head in to see Lady Edith mixing some liquid in water for the sick man.

"Here she is!" said William. "Come over here where I can see you." He held out his right hand, now scabbed with cuts and scrapes.

"Just seeing you makes all this worth it!" he went on as she took three small mincing steps to the bed. He held his hand out expectantly and she took it, perching on a chair by the four poster bed.

Daisy knew right at that moment how a rabbit feels in front of snake. Trapped.

Then it got worse when he looked up and asked her, "Do you think you'd marry me now and not wait until the war is over, like we promised?" His boy's face was hopeful and sad as well.

Seeing his expression made her squirm. "I can only stay a minute… Mrs. Patmore needs me," she blurted out.

"I'm sure she won't mind," said Lady Edith kindly.

"But…" Daisy's head swung to her ladyship. "We're very busy…"

"Stay Daisy, can't you stay?" William pressed her.

She wanted to run, so she did. She dropped his clammy hand and sprang upright. "They'll be sending out search parties in a minute!" She saw Lady Edith giving her a look of shock and sadness. "Really, I _have_ to go."

Daisy flew away, rushing down the corridor, before anyone heard her start to cry.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31 – Fear

Matthew lay in bed, on his back of course, as he couldn't even roll to his side without assistance. He'd sent Lavinia away earlier that day, she in tears, and he bitter and angry.

It was all so unfair, he railed inside his head! He lifted a weak hand and drove it into his thigh, and other than feeling the shock travel up his arm, his leg might as well have been dead wood.

That made his lift his hand and examine it front to back. When he finished with one, he did the same to the other. They bore cuts and bruises, and there was a piece of steel sticking from one knuckle that was working its way out. But – they worked.

He flexed his fingers, then his wrists and elbows. Finally lifting his arms overhead he grasped the iron bars of the headboard. He closed his eyes and thought of all the things he could do with his arms and hands, as his gaze fell on a patient across the room, who had one arm bandaged and trussed, while the other ended abruptly in a huge bandage at his elbow.

At least he had two arms and both hands. His eyes worked as well, unlike a poor devil in the corner with one eye gone.

Matthew thought about school, lugging books down from the racks at the Law Library to learn about contracts, land taxes, criminal cases, and civil suits. But, he reminisced, then he'd been able to climb stairs and ladders to reach those books. That would never happen again, he sighed.

But he could read, and turn pages, and write. He was still a solicitor; one just a bit – _impaired_. But it would be a lonely life. He had resolved not to be a burden to Lavinia Swire and she rushed away, not believing what he'd told her. "Think of me as one dead," he'd told her.

Lord what rubbish! Very theatrical and Shakespearean. He wrinkled his nose. Then he closed his eyes and tried to calm himself.

He could live without Lavinia; that was for the best – for _her_ best. He could still practice law; perhaps even teach someday. But it would be a lonely life, such as it was.

Lavinia would try to come back, he knew that. She claimed she was a small person, and she wasn't much good to anyone. But she would try – oh my, she would _try_. At the end, she'd hate him. Or worse, she'd take a lover to fill the ache. Then he'd be the bitter broken man, wondering who she was with when out of his room. No, better that she left. He'd bear the pain of her absence even if it would not make up for the loss of his legs and other things.

Mary would hang on though, he sensed that would happen for years. Carlisle would take her away, marry her, and have children. And in years to come Mary would come to visit, her face just as pale and frightened as when she told him he was paralyzed. A cripple, worse, an impotent cripple that was what he was. He'd be Cousin Matthew to her children and her family until he died, even when he became Lord Grantham upon the death of Robert. An Uncle Matthew blown up in the World War, launched into a world he did not want.

He chewed on his knuckle at that. Robert – Robert was a good man – and so was Carlisle, in his own way, although Matthew felt that it was money and power that drove Richard; totally unlike Robert. Matthew would try to be a good patron to the estate, but what could he do from a wheelchair?

And Mary would always wonder – what if? Just as he would. Just as he would.

A nurse came by his bed. "How's the pain? Nurse Sybil is working in the other ward at the moment."

"It's not bad." He stared up at the pretty Irish nurse. Donnelly, or something, her name. "Sorry to be a bother."

Green eyes flashed above a bright smile. "Captain Crawley, you never complain. You're not a bother at all."

"Thank you. Is Lady Mary Crawley about? Haven't seen her today."

"I don't believe she's been in."

"Oh."

The nurse left and Matthew felt quite alone. Now he truly was alone to add to his personal hell and he wondered about William. How was he?

The fear of the attack came back and he started to tear up. "Don't you die, William Mason! Don't you die," he whispered. "You were to be my valet someday. I need you to get better." His hand clawed at blanket. "Don't die, damn it!"

000

Mr. Mason peered down at Daisy, in the hall outside of William's room. "You'll do it, then?"

Daisy twisted her hands in her dress. "I don't think he should be bothering about that."

William had asked her to marry, for the simplest of reasons. He was dying, dying as she watched, and if they could be married, he'd told her, she'd be a widow with a pension. That thought scared her. All of it.

She didn't love William, not in that way. She liked him immensely, and maybe in time – well there is _no time_, girl! She could hear Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes telling her that. No time. _William had no time_.

"Well what do you think he should be bothering about, then?" Mr. Mason's eyes were wet and weepy, and he wrung his hands together. "You'll do it?"

Daisy turned her head timidly back to the room, where Lady Edith had gone back in to sit with William. The girl sighed as she knew what was happening. Lady Edith, all of them really, were watching Death come to call. An inch at a time it was strolling up to the house, making its way up the stairs. Bit by bit, worming its way inside. And poor William could only lie there and let it take him.

"But what if the Vicar won't marry us?" she asked then walked quickly away from the man with a vacant look on her face. Everyone, even William, knew, just _knew_ what was best for her. The problem was they had her boxed in like a fox and the hounds were closing in.

She ran down the back stairs, stopped on a landing and thought very hard, very hard. She ached to go back to William. If only he hadn't asked her to marry! That was wrong; it would be a lie! But the tears running down his face, his pretty face, tore at her heart and head.

She was a simple girl, barely able to boil water, if you believed Mrs. Patmore when she was in a bad mood. But that wasn't true either. She was strong and she learned and she'd helped Lady Sybil bake a cake. She dried her tears and straightened her back but she could not quite catch her breath.

But William – my God, poor William. He was dying, he said so. If only he had not asked _that_ question! But what could she do? What could she do? More tears ran down her face and she was really, really scared.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32 – Mary

Coming back from the meeting with Richard in London, where the deal was struck, she pressed her forehead against the glass of the railway carriage to calm the headache that had sprung up.

When Anna told her that Mrs. Bates' spiteful plan was to destroy the House of Grantham, she had dashed to London and sat in audience with Carlisle.

The look on Carlisle's face as she told him the story of Kamal Pamuk and that horrible night was one of grim satisfaction. He then had toyed with her and driven a very hard bargain.

When he said "This gives me an advantage over you," she had shivered, feeling like a mouse before an owl.

But Richard was a man of business and she knew what that meant. To build up money from nothing in that day and age required panache as well as bravery and skullduggery. Her papa was far too much a gentleman in every sense of the word, to engage in blackmail, bargaining in smoke filled rooms, or to have the necessary business sense to rise from the masses. Mary loved her father very, very much, but out in the world of business he would have failed.

Yet Richard had grown a vast fortune, while his teams of reporters, editors, newspapers, and yes - spies - seemed to have an ear everywhere. He sat there waving his cigar about as she sat meekly before him, giving him the tools to either destroy her utterly or to save her.

Richard chose mercy, thankfully.

So why then, Mary, she asked herself, did she feel that she had made a deal with the Devil?

Richard had told her before that she and he would make good team.

Was that would they be? A team? Teammates? Well, it was very obvious to her that on that team, he would be the leader and she the inferior member.

She peered out of the coach at the evening and saw the signposts marking the village station. Home – almost home then – and she sighed in relief. But there was no relief for the bigger problem. She had made a deal with Richard while the man she loved was in hospital having no use of half of his body. Mary knew that as a fact. She did love Matthew and always would.

Branson drove her up to the front door and she alighted, slipping inside quietly so no one heard her. She made her way up the great staircase, looking around at the Great Hall, knowing that this night would make the rest of her life. Richard told her he would take all steps to bury the Pamuk incident and she believed him. Yet she also knew that she had made a deal with someone who did not like his contracts broken, ever. But what were her options? She had none. She was damaged goods and had to rely on a man that she knew but scarcely to save her.

In her room she doffed her hat and coat when she heard the sound of weeping from down the corridor. So Mary followed the sound to Lavinia's room.

Lavinia Swire sat up in bed, sobbing softly, when Mary entered.

"Lavinia?"

"Sorry Mary, so sorry."

Lavinia poured out her heart to Mary – telling her that Matthew was sending her away, and worse – that Matthew told her they could not marry as they could not be lovers.

Mary felt her heart leap with alarm. What? "I never realized."

Lavinia's tears dripped onto her silk nightgown and robe. "I suppose it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain." Lavinia added. "But I didn't realize."

Mary slowly lowered herself to the bed, her mind awhirl. My God! That too gone? She'd heard Clarkson whispering to her father the day before. So that must have been the hushed conversation! Of course her father should know that his heir was… not _quite_ a man anymore. Seemed that bomb blast had done more damage, and was a farther reaching threat than she had realized.

"Nor I," answered Mary. Oh God she thought. "I'm stunned and desperately sad." She felt the room spin a bit then steady itself.

"But I won't go, no matter what he says," the London girl added. "I'll not leave his side."

Mary looked in shock at her rival. That was unkind, she knew. Matthew had found Lavinia after she had rejected him. Mary knew that Matthew's bolting had been because of her own foolishness. If she had told him _yes_ nearly four years ago, they'd be long married, and she might have had a child, perhaps two. And if either of those hypothetical children had been boys then Downton Abbey would be preserved. But now what?

Now this. This calamity! What would this mean to the estate? Matthew was still the heir but if he couldn't have children, what then? Mary gulped back words, as Lavinia went on how much she loved Matthew.

"I'll die without him," the red-headed beauty told her.

Mary forced her lips together so she would not add aloud, "I too will die without him."

But Mary summoned strength as she rose and walked around the bed, sat down and putting her arms around Lavinia the two women wept as one.


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33 – Thomas and Tom

O'Brien sneered at Thomas as they stood on the stairs just near the servant's hall. "So you'll go see him, our William?"

Thomas smiled at her. "I just said I would! I'll dress in my soldier suit to see him off and shake his hand as well."

"So you did," Sarah O'Brien told him. "Just wanted to hear you say it again."

"Why would I lie to you O'Brien?"

She looked him and up and down. "You're too good at it." She whirled and left him standing behind as downstairs bustled about to prepare for the wedding.

He looked after O'Brien's retreating back and down into the kitchen where Mrs. Hughes was trying to corner Daisy.

Thomas shook his head and went out in the yard and lit up a fag. This was the part of Downtown Abbey right by the house that was less than pleasant. Here was the servant's door, the carriage house for the motors and sheds for outdoor storage, like tables and chairs, tents, that sort of thing for garden parties.

Thomas wandered over to the garage where Branson was polishing the Renault. He watched Branson work away, leaning on the door frame. "I see they've got you working like a navvy."

Branson sighed hearing Thomas' voice. He didn't like the man, not because he was _that way_, but they'd not hit it off from the start. Tom Branson was Irish and proud. Thomas Barrow was British working class, arrogant and devious.

Tom Branson knew that he himself had a ways to go for money and manners, but Thomas always seemed to be sneaking about on some mission of his own, trying to gain power and position. Tom knew that he would not be a chauffeur forever; he had ideas, plans, hopes and dreams.

As far as he could tell Barrow only wanted to be butler and have everyone under his thumb and if that happened the footman and hall boys had better watch out, as he'd make their lives, and everyone else's, a living hell of hard work and condemnation.

Branson's father taught him that there were two kinds of despots in the world. Those in power and those who were dead. He didn't want to see Thomas Barrow dead of course, but he did not want him to be in power, at least if he had to work near the man.

"How's Mason doing?" Branson shook his head.

Thomas puffed on his smoke and offered one to Branson who waved the pack away. "Nearly done for. And he's no boy."

"Right. Still, rum road he got."

"He did his duty."

Branson caught the note of disapproval but let it go. He knew he had a heart murmur that had knocked him out of conscription, but didn't want to discuss it. Ancient history by now. "So did a lot of blokes."

"A lot that aren't coming home."

Branson nodded his head, wiped a speck of dust off the bonnet and stood back. "Ready to get the Duchess when I'm called."

Thomas swaggered over and bent to see his reflection in the paint. "God forbid her high and mighty-ship would see a little dust on her son's car. Missed a spot there," he pointed.

Branson looked over the spot and wiped away the smudge. "I do my job, just like you do yours."

"You sayin' I don't?" He got right into Branson's face.

"Good Christ, Barrow. What's got into you? Clarkson give you a dressing down?" Branson had heard about the many times Dr. Clarkson had ripped Barrow apart about his over-reaching his station.

Thomas dropped the fag on the floor and ground it out. "No… Didn't mean to be tedious." He sighed. "We're all out of sorts; the whole house is. Up and down. Matthew Crawley all busted up; William Mason lyin' up there fighting for air. It's all a cockup."

Branson looked quite hard at Thomas, who for a brief moment showed a soft side. "I heard there was a soldier died down at hospital the other day."

Thomas looked away. "Yeah. There was." He scuffed his boot along the floor. "That's why I'm glad I'm up here at the house. I seen enough of my share of dead bodies, legs blown off, all that."

"You fellas in the Medical Corps, always having fun."

Thomas laughed sardonically and held out his hand, the left in its yellow leather glove. "Hell of a souvenir if you ask me." He tightened his fingers and most of them slowly closed into a half fist. He rotated the claw and peered at it from several angles. "Not worth it; not at all." The fingers slowly relaxed and he lowered the arm.

Branson stared at the man. It was the closest he ever felt sorrow for Barrow. "At least you've still got it."

Thomas looked out the door gawking into the distance. He always tried to stay chameleon like, with his feelings hidden, but today he was on edge. William slipping away brought it all back. He was in the trench once more, and Alf was lighting a fag, the very same brand that Thomas always smoked. Alf was chattering on about God knows what, when the sniper blew his brains out, right through his tin helmet.

Thomas felt sweat break out on his body, reliving that nightmare, smelling blood and shit as Alf slid down the back wall of the trench. Thomas had fallen sideways, scrabbling down and aside, screaming in fear and disgust. The fear was for the enemy and the disgust was that he had pissed his pants when he saw Alf get hit.

It wasn't long after that he had a smoke, put his lighter in his left hand and held it above the edge of the trench at night. It didn't take long, not at all, for a bullet to tear his hand apart.

Branson tapped his arm. "You all right?"

Thomas shook himself. "Yeah. Sorry," he smiled. "Bit of a memory – jolts me at times."

Branson was about to say something amusing to shake Thomas from the funk when the telephone rang. He sprang over and answered the line from the house. "Branson. Yes, Mr. Carson. Twenty minutes." He hung the handset up. "I have to go get the Duchess."

Thomas scratched his head and then tugged on his uniform jacket. "I'd better be getting back. Time to say goodbye to William."

"He was a brave fellow, I bet. Heard he saved Mr. Matthew's life."

"I heard that too." Thomas almost said something then stopped, looking off in the distance. "We all have our ghosts you know. I hope William has buried his. Sometimes I feel like mine are following me."

Branson looked concerned. "You a Believer? In spirits and such."

"Nah," Thomas said. "I think there is enough evil in the world, without conjuring up any from the other side."

"Too right Thomas. Uhm, better be… getting on."

Barrow smiled. "We all have our little roles to play don't we?" He strode away and Branson watched the man go. There was something there something that he felt Thomas _almost_ told him. Odd duck. He bent to the crank and started the Renault.

Thomas Barrow walked into the house, into the hustle and bustle, and he saw Mrs. Hughes and Anna haul a reluctant Daisy up the stairs. Poor tike, he thought. Most girls wanted to marry a strapping fellow like William. Shame that the lad was half dead, he thought grimly.

The other memory flew into his head. An image of an outstretched hand, the wrist gaping open from the slice straight across, red blood dripping from the fingers. A razor was held in the other limp hand. He had stood looking down at the dead Captain, the one blinded by gas. Thomas had reached out a trembling finger and brushed at the soft hair over the forehead. "Why did you do it? Why'd you do it?" he gazed down for a few seconds. "You were so beautiful," he whispered. His lip trembled and he felt his eyes tear up.

Then a nurse starting screaming downstairs and he heard running feet. Thomas slipped out the door and away and found a quiet spot where he could crouch on the floor and weep.

Downton Abbey reformed about him and he sighed. William had faced the guns and the bombs until one got him. Mason would have an honorable death at least. Thomas flexed his crippled hand. "Poor sod," he said to himself.

**Author's Notes:**

**Navvy – UK term for a laborer, typically of heavy construction work like bridge or road building.**


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34 – The Crawley's

Robert looked up from his paper as Cora flew into then out of the room. "Cora, what are you rushing about for?"

Cora stopped in the door with a surprised look. "With Isobel gone, there are an awful lot of things to be done with the house, the servants, and the hospital."

"I thought you wanted her gone. So why the fuss?"

Cora gave him the look that said he was in trouble. She came to him and looked down at him sitting so comfortably. "Well, while you are reading your paper there all sorts of things going on, and I really don't have time for a chat. But… you know how Cousin Isobel can be."

"And is," he finished for her. "I'm glad she's gotten back though, for Matthew's sake."

Cora put a soft hand on his shoulder in a feeling of tenderness she'd not felt for some time. "Sybil said that Matthew was quite a mess when his mama walked into the hospital. She managed to shoo the other nurses out so they could have a good cry together." The papers she was holding filled her other hand and she almost knelt down and put both arms about Robert. Somehow, seeing his sit so still in the middle of the busy house made him seem small and unimportant.

Robert folded his paper. "Yes," he said and took Cora's hand. "I wish there was something I could do."

"You could speak to William's father. You know the poor man has been hanging about for days, and watching his boy die all the while."

Robert stood and gave Cora a level stare and the look she gave him was different than it usually was. "Something wrong?" There was almost a look of pity in her eyes. Whatever for, he wondered.

Cora looked away then back. "I really must get on to the nurses schedule."

"Cora, I…" he started to say, as she fleetingly kissed his cheek then left in a swirl of her skirts.

Robert dropped the paper onto the chair in disgust. Was he nothing but a folderol, a useless trifle? He looked about the library, and saw that new maid Jane cross through the hall. He shook his head at another stranger in the house.

Robert found Mr. Mason in the South Wing corridor, looking out one of the windows at the grounds. He cleared his throat and William's father turned, and seeing him touched his hand briefly to his forehead.

"Lord Grantham. I didn't expect you to come. So good of you."

Robert inspected the old farmer, thinking the man had aged ten years in just a few days. Robert took the man's hand and held the rough one in his grasp. "My good fellow, I want you to know…" he faltered, "how sorry we all are for you."

"Thank you milord, but it's not me I'd want you to be sorry for, it's my boy."

"Of course," Robert said automatically. "He was a brave lad, I am quite sure."

Mr. Mason tried to smile. "He always were a good boy, minding his manners and such, but I expect you knew that, him serving at the house."

"I've been told that William shielded Captain Crawley from a shell blast. Admirable. Quite what I would have thought the lad would do. When he was serving at table, I never feared that he'd get things wrong."

"Aye." The old man sighed again and took out a handkerchief and wiped at his lined face. "Sorry milord, can't help it."

"You know I was in the African War."

"I heard that milord."

"Mr. Bates, my valet, was my batman, my aide down there. He was ever so useful to me, just as I know that William was for Captain Crawley." Robert paused. "And Bates and I… well, we had a few adventures."

"The main thing, milord is that we got William home." He looked about the long corridor and out the window. "He loved to work here."

Robert let go of Mr. Mason's hand, having held it firmly all this time. "May I see him?"

"Milord, it would be an honor," he beamed. "But don't you be botherin'…"

"No, my good man, the honor is all mine," he said softly.

Robert went into the bedroom, and saw how the room was neatly arranged with William tucked into the great four-poster bed. Edith has sitting by his side quietly reading a book aloud.

"He's sleeping, I think," she told her father as she saw a shocked look leap to his face. William had gone down quite a lot lately and now his face had taken on the faint bluish tinge. "I've been reading _Treasure Island_ to him. I'm not sure how much it helps…"

"Edith, it does help, believe me," Robert told her. He had been in a similar situation during his war, reading the entire Book of Mark to a wounded sergeant named Hazeltine who'd had most of his face blown away and had lingered for two whole days. "I think it's a fine idea."

Mr. Mason said, "Lady Edith, I know it does help him to stay calm. He knows, milord. My boy knows that…" his voice faltered.

Robert took the man's arm. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No milord, you have done far too much for the likes of us."

Edith interjected. "Oh no, Mr. Mason, we all liked William." She stopped for a moment. "Papa, have you heard about the plans for later?"

Robert nodded. "Yes. The Vicar will do it."

Edith smiled. "Granny."

"Yes, mama will never take no for an answer." Robert looked down at William lying so still. "At least we can do that much for him."

"Oh, papa," stuttered out Edith. "I… so wish that we could heal him."

Robert held his daughter for a moment. "When you have done all that you can do, then you must put yourself into God's hands." He went back to the bed, folded his hands and prayed for a moment. His head came up and he looked down at the boy. "Good bye William. You were a fine footman and I am sure a far better man," his words hissed out slowly.

Mr. Mason replied. "Thank you, milord. Thank you ever so much."

Robert backed away, came to attention and saluted the soldier lying before him. He then turned swiftly, shook the father's hand again and left the room, his face frozen in grief.

Mr. Mason smiled. "Lord Grantham is one fine man, milady."

Edith dabbed at her face. "He does try to be." She lowered herself to the chair at bedside and opened the book. "Now where were we?

She turned the page. "Oh, yes. Chapter 17. She cleared her throat and spoke in a soft tone.

"_A Narrative Continued by the Doctor: The Jolly-boat's Last Trip_

_THIS fifth trip was quite different from any of the others. In the first place, the little gallipot of a boat that we were in was gravely overloaded. Five grown men, and three of them-Trelawney, Redruth, and the captain-over six feet high, was already more than she was meant to carry. Add to that the powder, pork, and bread-bags. The gunwale was lipping astern. Several times we shipped a little water, and my breeches and the tails of my coat were all soaking wet before we had gone a hundred yards."_

The words of Robert Louis Stevenson and the story of Treasure Island echoed down the corridor, where Lord Grantham held his hand against the wall and steadied himself. "Dear God," he asked, "please take William to your bosom and hold him safe."

Then he walked away not feeling like the Lord, but only as a very tired and helpless man.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35 – Medicine

Sybil stood in the village hospital ward and looked over her charges. The bandages were all changed this morning, and most were healing nicely. Even the burns and the one gangrene case were coming along. She ticked the patients off in her head as she walked along the window side until she came to Matthew Crawley. Matthew was flat on his back of course, no longer needing quite as much of a morphine dose as a few days ago. Although no longer drugged, his blackened eyes held a look of being lost. There were some things that medicine could not correct. They had talked about these cases; where the mind was the ailment, and though there were some shellshock cases upstairs, she had some idea what Matthew must be feeling. When Mama lost the baby, she had cried bitterly for quite a while; days and days in private.

Sybil was always the baby of the family, and the idea of having a younger child around, especially one so much younger than she, had given her a wonderful sense of joy. When Mama fell getting from the bath and lost it she felt it most keenly of her sisters.

Sybil bit her lip, thinking that at nineteen as she had been that summer, she might have a baby. As she was not married, that thought was absurd, but the idea of having a baby, sister or brother to care for had made her so happy.

She looked down at the Army Captain, one known collectively as Cousin Matthew, a former fiancé of her sister, and still her father's heir after Cousin Patrick was lost on the Titanic. She scooted a chair over to bedside and sat down, Matthew turning his head a fraction.

"It's you," he said, his tone soft and hopeless.

"Yes, Cousin Matthew. I have a few minutes free." She smoothed the bedclothes of wrinkles and poked at the edge of his pillow.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to make you comfortable, that's all."

His eyes turned to her in fury. "Stop it," he hissed. "I'm not entitled to that."

"Entitled? You think being comfortable is something that is optional." She said this flatly and he got the sarcasm.

"I know. You're going to jolly me along and tell me to pick up my pallet and walk?" He turned his head from side to side. "Sorry, I don't happen to have a magic pool to wade into at the moment."

Sybil sighed. She knew that Matthew was paralyzed below the waist, with every deficit that meant. "That's not what I'm saying." She changed the subject. "Your mother called and I understand she will be in shortly."

"Yes, Mother back from France. Shame she could not have brought back some holy water from Lourdes. That might do the trick," he laughed scornfully. "Not that I'm entitled to that either."

Sybil was rocked back in her chair. "What's bothering you?" she asked.

His face fell. "My legs…" his hand hovered over the blanket by his hips. "And all that… gone. Do you think I should be overjoyed?"

Sybil took his hand and looked straight at him. "Cousin Matthew, I have no idea of even imagining what has happened, or what you went through in the war before the shell or mortar that blew you up."

Those words made him look up at her. "Go on," he said bleakly.

"But I do know this. Feel my hand."

"What?"

"Feel my hand. It's warm and soft. You can feel that."

"Don't be daft."

"There, then. That's proved it. You are alive, Matthew. Alive. One of the other soldiers died yesterday."

"I heard."

Sybil went on. "I can't bring back your legs… or the other things… nor can I mend the rift, pull out the wedge that I hear you have driven between yourself and Lavinia Swire."

Matthew sighed and swiftly let go of her hand. "She _had_ to leave. Had to make her."

"That soldier who died yesterday. He can't feel, or touch, or breathe _ever_ again."

"Now you're telling me the obvious!"

Sybil smiled and shook her head. "This is no fairy-story, Matthew. It's the real world."

Matthew knew exactly what she was trying to do and he resented it. "Are you done with your sermon, with this fairy story? Next you'll be telling me that I should have Lavinia come back. And don't you go telling me about life and death either, I know all too much about that." His words had grown more angry and resentful. "All too much."

She sighed and pressed his hand once more, and then half rose and put her face by his. "If you mother were here, she'd be telling you the very same thing."

"Don't badger me! Don't you badger me, Cousin Sybil! Don't! Mary has taken a stab at it. Who's next? Countess Violet? Your mother? Or send the other sister down to the village. Let Edith have a hand in nursing and trying to buck up _dear old poor Matthew_!"

Sybil pressed her lips together to prevent from yelling aloud. "Matthew," she said slowly and sadly, "Edith can't come. She's with William – William Mason."

That stopped Matthew's critical self appraisal. "How is William getting on?"

Sybil sighed again. "Matthew. He'll not make it."

"No!"

"Granny twisted the Vicar's arm to marry William and one of the kitchen maids. A girl named Daisy Robinson."

"Oh God. He used to write to her, constantly." His voice dropped as he whispered. "How long?"

"Not long. Not very long at all."

"My God, I hadn't realized."

"So you see Matthew," she started to say but he cut her off.

"I… do see… my God." He was silent for a few seconds then a hand went up to his face and covered his eyes. "Marry, you said?"

"The poor boy wanted to marry her after the war, you see. And so…"

"Yes, this is the end of the war for him, isn't it? I see." His hand fell from his face. "I am sorry. So sorry." He squeezed her hand with a will. "And here I am all blubbery about how unfair life is? Damn."

Sybil took a handkerchief and wiped his face, then gave him a drink of water, which calmed him somewhat.

"Sybil, I… am sorry."

"It's all right. So you see, _you_ have a chance. I don't have any medicine that can help William. But you…" she paused, "you must go on. Must go on. You probably know that from your war experience. You must go on." Sybil shuddered as she remembered that nice young officer who'd slit his wrist in the ward upstairs and died. "You _must_ go on! _Don't give up now!_"

Matthew lay there thinking of William and all the times the man had braced him when his fears seemed the greatest. William Mason was the brave one, and that was so unfair.

"Then we'll just have to chuck it back at them!" William had said just before they'd left the command dugout to go to the final assault. William was not afraid then, not like Matthew had been.

Those words had calmed him, and the supportive comments from his men before they went _Over the Top_, had kept him going with a false look of fortitude.

Matthew wondered if he could spit in the eye of Death? He'd done it several times already, but the black pit of despair had a slippery slope at the top. He gulped and shook his head.

Sybil held his hand waiting for an answer.

"You'll let me know…" his voice shook, "when William's gone."

"I will." Sybil bent further and kissed his cheek. "I don't kiss all my patients."

That made him laugh. "I'll hold you to it."

Sybil stood and walked away, seeing Doctor Clarkson peering at her.

He crooked a finger at her and spoke quietly as she stood at his side. "How is Captain Crawley doing?" Dr. Clarkson asked.

"He's depressed and so, so sad."

"Reality and Mother Nature can be harsh medicine can't it?"

"Yes," said Sybil not quite knowing where the doctor was going with the conversation. "I've tried to convince him that he will live, unlike William Mason, our footman."

Clarkson nodded. "William we can't save but Matthew has a chance, a real chance," the doctor said grimly. "We must build up Matthew's spirit for his sake," his eyes fell to hers, "and your family's."

"Yes," Sybil said, but knowing what she knew of Matthew's medical condition, it seemed a Pyrrhic victory. "I wish I knew the outcome, though."

"Lady Sybil, don't we all?" said the country doctor.

**Author's Notes:**

**Pick up your pallet and walk – A Christian story of a paralyzed man being healed by Jesus of Nazareth as the man waited to drag himself into a magic spring that was presumed to have healing powers.**

**Holy water from Lourdes – Lourdes, France has a Catholic shrine where many go praying to be healed of their afflictions.**

**Over the Top – An assault across No man's Land, _Over the Top_ of the trench.**

**Pyrrhic victory – One that means you have won the battle, but lost the war because of the great cost. Also means victory at a devastating cost.**


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36 – Shoot

Sergeant Cropper poked at his mouth were a particularly hard piece of hardtack had abraded his gum. "Blast!"

Tim Speakes sagged down next to him as he saw blood on Cropper's lip. "Problem, Sarge?"

Cropper spat and swore. "The bloody Hun hasn't gotten me so far, now I'm to be done in by the blasted food!" He pointed to the bloody sputum on the floor of the house they were perched in. "Look at that mess would you?"

Speakes laughed and patted his shoulder. "You'll live."

"I hope the hell so, Speakes. My missus would kick my tail if I died."

Speakes opened the breech of his Lewis light machine gun and blew dirt from it. He'd thought it was firing slowly at the last and that speck of dirt confirmed it. He shook his head as it was a terrible way to treat good machinery.

Cropper smiled at him. "You treat that gun like it was part of you, mate!"

Speakes nodded in agreement. "Aye. That I do. But when I was a flyer, any little thing to gum up the works and then you'd have a bad engine at 5,000 feet, and nothing but a lot of thin air and the bloody Hun below that! Major balls up, that." He wiped his eyes and peered down the street of the ruined village. "I learnt right quick that our mechanics might _say_ it was all perfect. But their arses weren't flying, now were they?"

Cropper looked down the street. "Seen any movement?" They looked down the ruined village street into the dusk.

Tim paused with his complaint. "Don't know."

Cropper motioned to the private beside him, it was Bynes. "Go over to Peaker's squad on our left and get a couple of poor sods out to the big tree by the river. See if somethin's going on."

Bynes muttered something about officers as he stood to go.

"I'm not a bleeding officer!" Cropper protested.

"Sorry, Sergeant. But you might as well be with the Captain gone."

"The officer Johnnies at the rear know that and will figure out real quick that we need another, probably all spit and polish. But never you mind. Now get a move on."

Bynes paused by the door before he crouched to run across the street. "Nice safe house here and you send me out into the bloody open!" In spite of his belly aching her did as he was told and disappeared outside as the squad covered him with their rifles.

Cropper and Speakes and the other five soldiers in the ruined house heard his footsteps as Bynes ran across the cobblestones and tripped as he scurried over the broken brick and plaster that littered the streets.

Speakes peered after the man. "Looks like he made it."

Cropper relaxed slightly and leaned against the wall in relief. They'd lost too many men in this last week, too damn many. "Good for him," he muttered but he did feel protective for every man, at least the ones they had left. What with the carnage of the charge, losing the Captain plus twenty others killed, and another thirty wounded or sick in the next few days, the company had shrunk down to four squads. "About like dropping a new cotton suit into hot water," he laughed to himself. "Shrink up so tight you'd never get a breath even if you could squeeze into the pants!" Forty bloody lads left, and five of those so green, they still shook when they heard a rifle shot. Cropper shook his head in disgust.

The other soldiers kept watching for a few minutes and off to the left they could see two of theirs furtively dart forward, going from house to house and fence line to hedge.

They didn't hear anything for a quite a while, just the calling of some doves.

"This village is still standing. Considering how many times it's traded hands, that's a bloody miracle," said Speakes' loader, a man from Leeds named Doyle.

"That it is," said Speakes.

"I bet the Captain would have liked this house," Doyle went on. "Mason and him could have been all cozy, and a bunch of us too."

Speakes grunted.

"You think Captain Crawley is all right? And what about Mason?"

Cropper spoke up. "I got word they were sent back home."

"That's good for them," added Doyle.

"Maybe," Cropper told him. "The doctor at the hospital told our medic they was hurt pretty bad."

"Oh," said Doyle, as Speakes kept a sharp look down the street. He prodded the gunner. "So Speaks, this better than flyin'?"

Tim Speakes curled his lip. "The bullets are just as deadly, Doyle. They don't right care if your arse is one foot off the ground or a thousand . They'll kill you just the same."

Chris Doyle busied himself checking the ammo drums. "You're right of course. Funny business, right?"

"What?" Speakes asked but knew what would be next.

"You was a flier then here you are. Never heard how that turned out."

Cropper kicked Doyle with his boot. "Leave off, you!"

"Damn! That hurt. Just wonderin', Sarge. Just wonderin'." Doyle rubbed his leg where the boot caught him. "Thanks for that."

Cropper grinned at the man. "My pleasure."

Doyle looked around the room, devoid of furniture other than a smashed chair and a cracked mirror on the wall. "They tore hell outta this place." He sniffed. "Not too bad though. Better than the trenches. Doesn't stink."

Speakes peered over the sights of the Lewis gun and saw two tin hats go forward a bit, bobbing over a hedge, then drop from sight. He sighed at what he felt was to come, knowing that somewhere out there were plenty of enemy soldiers waiting to shoot them to hell. The last week had seen them move forward three times and back once, but each advance had gained more and more ground.

Chris lit a fag and passed it to Speakes. "Sorry, Tim. Me and my big mouth; but you know me."

Speakes took the cigarette and took a puff then gave it back. He coughed on the acrid smoke, but the smell brought back the memory he tried to forget.

They were cruising along after another bombing run, without even a single fighter to chase them away. It was a sunny day, with blue sky and scattered white clouds. The target, a bombed out railhead, had plenty of troops on the ground but they scattered when their bombs fell on the building. They'd taken some fire from the ground, not much, but they got off target, linked up with their flight and headed for home.

That was the dangerous time. When you were almost relaxed, heading for chow and decent rest in actual beds, far behind the front lines. Brandy likely, or maybe a whiskey then, and there was that pretty little French girl just off base in the nearby town.

Wilton was flying smoothly as the other four planes joined up into wing abreast as they cruised for home. Nothing happened as Tim's gut tied itself into a knot as the flight went on. But despite his expectations, the flight was unbroken, and they'd circled the field, waiting for their chance to land. They were fourth in the flight of five. They watched the three other planes go in and land.

Then it was their turn and all hell broke loose. Wilton had turned the bus into a left bank, and lined up with the field when out of the corner of his eyes he saw a Tri-Plane zoom down and blast the flight leader to ribbons, that plane instantly bursting into flame.

Speakes lined up his gun and fired, but it was a long way off, he was low on ammo, and the enemy fighter jinked easily out of the way and pulled up. He reached forward and pounded on his pilot's shoulder. "Get us down quick!" he screamed at the man. Or go around, get some altitude!"

He loved flying and hated the killing. It was such a lovely day – for flying, too!

Wilton looked back as they both saw the German fighter come in on their tail, the twin Spandau machine guns on the nose twinkling in glee.

Speakes lined up his gun and fired.

Cropper said "Look!" softly and Speakes was snapped brought back to the present.

Coal scuttle helmeted men in Feldgrau uniforms ran across the street, four or five in all. They were heavily armed with potato mashers and rifles.

Speakes lined up his gun and squeezed the trigger before anyone else could move. His bullets dropped them like puppets with cut strings. He fired another burst into them just to make sure.

No one else even had a chance to fire, and no other weapons had even been pointed down the street.

"Stupid sods! They must have seen us!" Doyle shouted. "And you with that lovely gun pointing right at them!"

Cropper waited for any other fire, but no bullets streaked their way, or other figures appeared. "I hate this village stuff. At least in the trench we could see them coming!"

Speakes sighed greatly and squeezed his eyes closed. Doyle pounded him on the back but Tim ignored the man.

The machine gun fire from the Tri-plane had raked their DH-4, the fighter being better able to point and fire then he was in the back of the lumbering plane. Each time he fired the gun bounced on the mounting, making the plane shake and the plane, in turn, shook him. He glanced down at the spare ammo drum, and he knew had had no time to change to the filled one. He guessed he might have a few rounds, maybe ten at most left in this drum, so he held his fire.

"Speakes!" screamed Wilton. "Shoot the bastard!" he yelled over the sound of the engine and cry of the wind over the wings.

Speakes held his tongue and his fire as Wilton tried to get the de Havilland onto the ground. The pilot tried a side-slip and the Tri-plane overshot them, climbing for altitude, as the DH-4 fell a hundred feet, still lined up on the airfield. Tim saw some fire from the ground hit the German plane, but as it climbed, it banked around and back, firing at them once more.

"Shit!" Tim muttered then held his fire as the De Havilland touched down and started a landing roll. He elevated the gun, leading the Tri-plane as it came down but as he took aim, saw bullets zip into the tail, the fuselage, chewing their way up the plane.

"Shoot! Shoot 'em! For God's sake…" Wilton screamed as he waggled the stick side to side to make them a harder target.

Speakes waited and waited for right moment. He squeezed the stamped metal trigger and the Lewis barked, just as the plane took a lurch, then ground looped as a wingtip stuck the ground.

The German fighter staggered in the air but it climbed away, its engine coughing and stuttering.

The DH-4 spun about mashing his head against the gun ring as it sagged to a stop on broken landing gear.

Dazedly Tim pulled himself from the rear cockpit and reached back to help Wilton. Wilton lay there, his face slack and eyes closed, and Tim could see the horrible mess inside the cockpit where German bullets had missed him but got his friend.

Doyle pounded him on the back. "You got 'em. Great shooting! How'd you learn to shoot so well?"

Speakes punched Doyle in the mouth. "Shut up! Shut up!"

Cropper climbed on him and held him back. "Speakes! Enough!"

Speakes felt the anger slow and stop. He pulled out a handkerchief and gave it to Doyle to stanch the bloody lip. "Here."

Doyle took the offering. "Sure."

"Sorry," said Speakes.

"Christ," said one of the other soldiers. "What set him off?"

Tim Speakes stifled a sob with a cough. Shoot so well? Shoot so well? They horrible truth was that he'd learned to shoot so quickly, and so well, from the harsh lesson of waiting too long and letting a friend die.

After that horrible day he could never get into an aeroplane again. So he volunteered for the infantry, stupid sod that he was. But the bloody war was still going on, no matter how many Crawley's or Mason's got blown up.

Tim sighed again, as he knew that he too was just as wounded as they were, but not as dead yet as Wilton was.


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37 – Over

Mary sat by Matthew and tried not to cry. She didn't want to tell Mathew that she was now engaged to Carlisle. That news could wait as long as was needed yet the news being in the newspaper so swiftly made her pause. Papa was quite shocked by the news at breakfast and so was she.

"Why so sad?" Matthew asked her that day after luncheon.

"I'm not sad," she sniffled. "Hay fever. Allergies."

"You know it is odd, I haven't heard you mention Richard Carlisle. Is he still around?"

"Yes."

"Anything you want to tell me?"

She stared down at his face.

He went on. "Mother told me at noon today. Thought I ought to know."

"Oh," Mary replied sadly and that single syllable said volumes to Matthew.

He smiled up at her white face and staring eyes. "I'm happy for you."

Mary pressed her hand to her mouth. "How _can_ you say that?"

"I just did and I do mean it." He took her free hand. "You need a life."

She looked hard at him. "Away from you?"

The silence stretched for a few seconds. At last he said, "Yes. I have sent Lavinia away."

Anger flew to her face. "So I'm next, is that it? Another one of your women to be bullied about?"

"_My_ women? Whatever are you talking about? You're not my…" He froze. "That part of my life is over."

"But am I, Matthew? One of _your_ women?"

"That's not what I meant. But you're not… well, not anymore," he spoke harshly.

Mary shook her head as she heard the bitter tone of his words. "Don't let's fight. I don't need another argument. I've had far too many in the last day or so." She released his hand. "Dr. Clarkson thinks we should start exercising your legs first."

"What good will that do? Useless things – might as well chop them off."

That shocked her. "Don't say that! Don't ever say that!"

"Well what would you have me do with them?"

"Matthew they are your legs, like it or not. They're part of you."

"They feel like blocks of wood." He poked at his thigh. "Nothing. Not a damn thing."

Mary rose, flipped back the blanket and beheld his long slim legs. She had washed them several times and when she touched his cool skin it made her tremble.

"Come on, nothing to lose." She laid a hand on his feet, which did not curl down like another paralyzed patient her sister Sybil tended. Her fingers traced them from toes to ankles, then shaking her head, picked up the right foot and began to massage it.

"Cousin Isobel agrees that this may help. She told me about an article she read about keeping limbs supple," she told him. "She convinced Clarkson about the treatment."

Matthew watched this with scorn on his face. "Mary. Mary stop! You might as well call in a witch doctor for all the good it will do!"

Mary ignored him and went on with the massage, bending his lovely toes, the fine bones of his feet and ankles and worked up to his knee. "See? Every day we must do this." She put hands under his right thigh and lifted it from the mattress.

Matthew grabbed at her hands. "Stop it," he hissed. "Stop it!" He tried to push her away. "I don't want you…" he stopped with a lurch.

"Matthew?"

Veins stood out in his neck. "I can't feel it; not anything. Not a pinprick or a poke. This is useless mumbo-jumbo! And besides…"

"What?"

"I don't want you touching me…" he pointed to his groin. "All right for the other nurses to help me, uhm… _down there_, but not you."

Mary peered down at her wounded cousin. "Matthew, I don't think of you," she cleared her throat before she cried out, "in quite _that_ way." As she said the soft words it was a lie, almost the biggest lie she ever told; nearly as big a lie as her engagement to Richard, the ink fresh on the page.

She kept flexing his leg up and down, back and forth to distract her mind. Matthew turned his head and was silent as Mary went on with the exercise, now working on his left leg.

So Matthew was squeamish about that? She sniffed. What would Matthew do if he knew that she _did know_ what he looked like, _down there_? She and Sybil had bathed him three times when he was drugged with morphine. Mercifully they did not discuss the process of bathing their male cousin, other than medical matters of course, but the sight of his naked body almost made her faint.

Naked seemed so much awful a word as bare, didn't it? She turned her face so he would not see her blush.

Mary was no prude - not _exactly_ - and she did know how things worked between males and females, that is, men and women. And Kemal _had_ touched her. She forced aside the memory of that terrible night. The worst of course was carrying the body, her dear mother and maid helping her. She still dreamt about the horror of it.

She turned her thoughts to the other patients in the ward. Some of the men were enjoying the show and she wished they had put the screens up about the bed.

"Mary," he grunted.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. I know that you _are_ trying to help. Not that it will."

"Matthew, you have to remember that you have survived the war. The war is over."

His face flipped toward her and he grabbed her soft hand. "No. You're wrong."

"But, you're here now. Back from the Front."

He pulled her close so she could hear him whisper. "Mary, Cousin Mary. You think it's over? Look about this room and tell me that it's over."

Her face fell as the sadness of that statement stung her heart. She looked at Matthew's attractive legs and feet then to the man down the way missing a leg and an arm and another who had _no_ legs. She stopped the grim inventory before she fled the room.

"And as I lie here – a cripple – there are men out there…" he flinched, "my men, and thousands of others fighting and dying this very moment!" His blue eyes peered up at her with force. "So don't tell me it's over. Not yet! Not by a long shot!"

She reared back and saw the anger in his eyes. "Oh, Matthew, I…"

"Sorry to put it that way." He dropped her hands. "And congratulations on your engagement. Tell Richard that if he's not decent to you, I will personally see to him." He almost chuckled as he said it.

"Oh, really?" She told him, the sudden injection of humor making her head spin.

He smiled grimly. "Tell him if he does not treat you well, truly well, then I will have to rise up and challenge him." Then his eyes twinkled.

"I shall hold you to that, Matthew. I shall." She said this white faced and trembling looking down at his handsome body; a body that she longed to hold close.

"I mean it. Mark my words, Cousin. I do mean it."

"I'm sure you do." She tittered. "Now how about tea?" she added thinking that was a safer subject.

"Yes, I'd like that."

Mary pulled the blankets back up over his dead but still fine-looking legs and went to prepare tea.


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38 – A Wedding

Duchess Violet had worked her magic once more. Even the Vicar had bowed to her wishes, knowing that to block her plan was tantamount to professional suicide.

The housemaids had gone in and decorated the room and the four-poster with garlands of flowers, to make an airy woodland scene. Mrs. Hughes nodded her head with pleasure and satisfaction when she saw the stage was set. "Mr. Mason," she said catching him in the corridor, "I hope you know that I am, well we all are, so very sorry."

Mr. Mason bowed slightly. "I am so very grateful for everything that you, Lady Edith, Duchess Violet, well… all of you… have done for William. He was never so proud as to say that he worked here in this great house." He sighed and looked down the corridor to the room where William lay and gasped for life. "He never… ever expected… all this." The man choked back tears.

Elsie Hughes touched his hand. "I know. I know. It is hard."

The old man straightened and smiled a little. "But we'll get him married good and proper! Won't we?"

"Yes," she said and looked back to see the under-maids leave the room. "The Vicar will be here at one. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"No. You've done right plenty. Far more than you should have I suppose."

"He's a fine boy; a hard worker. Always did his best."

"Yes," he sighed. "He is that. I'd better go back in. Lady Edith has been a wonder, you know."

Elsie turned when she heard the door open and Lady Edith stood there smiling.

"Mr. Mason, the room is ready. Why don't you come in now?"

Mrs. Hughes walked the man to the door and escorted him in. She stepped to the bed and saw that William was sleeping. "Poor bairn," she whispered. She caught Lady Edith's eye. "Milady, will there be anything else?"

"Yes. I'd expect we'll need a good chair for granny. She said she'll be here for the wedding."

"Of course. I'll see to it, straight away." She nodded to Mr. Mason, who stood by the bed again. As she walked downstairs she was very satisfied with the arrangements.

Just one thing was missing – the bride.

000

Daisy Robinson stood in the kitchen in the midst of the usual chaos in a daze. Mrs. Hughes told her that the room upstairs was all arranged and when she heard that she ran into the dry store room and buried her face against the shelving.

Elsie went to the girl, turned her about and looked sadly at her. "It won't take long, Daisy. Just a few minutes, if that."

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes. I… don't think... I can…" words failed her.

"Daisy, my girl, today is yours and William's wedding day. Why don't Anna and I get you dressed?"

They took her by the hand to the third floor into a spare bedroom, where they had laid out a beautiful new dress, all flowers, pink and green. In spite of herself, she thought it lovely. They stripped off her working dress and led her to the bath where they bathed her with a bubbly bath soap that Lady Grantham must use as it smelled just like her. They washed her hair and cleaned her fingernails and toenails, finally wrapping her in a long towel, drying her hair and pinning it up.

Through all this, not a word was spoken, or if they did, Daisy didn't hear them. As Anna fixed her hair she watched the little girl in the mirror become changed - changed from the kitchen dog's body into a woman - a lovely young woman on her wedding day.

It was all going so fast and there was nothing she could do to stop it. So she hid inside herself and let them do to her what they wished.

000

William struggled to breathe properly and slept often. This time he awoke to see flowers on the bed posts, window sills, and the fireplace mantle. He rested trying taking it all in. It was a wonder; so beautiful. His dad was there and Lady Edith, plumping the pillows, straightening the bedclothes. His dad shaved his cheeks of the bristles and kissed his head at the end.

Then the Vicar came in plus the indoors staff; Thomas and O'Brien, Bates and Anna, Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore; all of them.

Then Lady Edith came in escorting Duchess Violet who had done so much for him bringing him home. _Home_. Yes, Downtown Abbey was _home_ to him and would be forever more.

The door opened wide and Mr. Carson slowly walked in with Daisy Robinson on his arm. There was a nimbus of light about her to his eyes, lighting up her appealing hair and the flowers there. She was an angel, an absolute angel, and he loved her so as she walked to him, and took his hand. The earlier time in the room her eyes were scared, but now she looked happy. Yes happy. That was good, he thought as he struggled for air.

The Vicar read the service saying the time honored words. Although the staff was crying, and Lady Edith had a strange expression, William's eyes were only on Daisy as Daisy Robinson was the girl he loved.

The Vicar pronounced them husband and wife and his dad gave him the gold band which he placed on Daisy's left hand. They kissed, just for a moment, as Daisy became his wife. William relaxed with relief as at least Daisy would get something, something of a pension.

The staff came to him trying to hide their tears and he knew this was goodbye. Thomas saluted him and shook his hand. Bates pressed his shoulder but could not speak. Anna and the maids tried not to let him see their tears, but they were past that point. Even gruff Miss O'Brien pressed his hand and he felt tears fall from her face onto his.

Mrs. Hughes, her Scottish face made for sorrow, came to the bed looking sadder than he'd ever seen her. "Well, you two are married. That much is done." She hugged Daisy and kissed her forehead then knelt down by his bed. "William, oh William. Rest well."

William rested his hand on her head for a moment and then she fled from the room.

Mr. Carson's face looked like it would come apart from the grief it showed. William stopped that from happening by gasping out, "It's all right, Mr. Carson. I'll be fine."

The butler bent down and took his hand. He said to him, "You _are_ a good man, William. You'd have had my job someday."

All William could do by then was nod and smile.

Carson kissed Daisy on the cheek. "My girl. Congratulations."

Carson stepped aside so Lady Edith and Duchess Violet could approach.

"You rest my boy. Nothing to worry about now is there?" the old woman said. She smelled of verbena and powder and smiled at him through her lined face. "You rest well, son."

Lady Edith pressed his shoulder. "Be back soon," then she and Carson walked Duchess Violet from the room.

William looked up to Daisy, who was now smiling holding his hand once more. Married, they were actually married. He smiled at her as she squeezed his hand.

000

Out in the hallway, Violet stood between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. "Well, that went very well, didn't it Vicar?" she said, her blue eyes piercing.

The Vicar nodded sagely.

"Very solemn and holy, wasn't it Vicar?" Violet went on.

The Vicar cleared his throat and kept a level tone. "Duchess, it was the very best I could manage on such short notice. I trust you found it… acceptable, milady."

"Oh more than acceptable. Much more." The old lady took his arm. "You did very well, my man. Now help an old woman down the stairs and we'll have a brandy. Don't know about you but I certainly need one."

Lady Edith watched her go, knowing that nothing would have happened but for granny. She went back in to tend the dying man.

Mr. Carson took Mrs. Hughes by the arm and they slowly walked downstairs.

000

Hours passed, the whole afternoon and into the evening, and at the end, William felt Daisy's hand in his. As he slipped away the shadows with growing on all sides, he remembered what Timothy Speakes said.

"_Right. Well if no one is trying to kill you from the air, or the ground, and it's a nice day, you can get up above the clouds and smoke. The sun is shining, the air is cold, but clean, and when you look all around – the sky, the land – it feels like you could fly forever. Like a bird." _

"Sounds lovely," William had answered.

"It is, my lad, it is. _Heaven_ – that's what I think flying is. _Heaven_."

William felt Daisy's hand in his, and sensed his father nearby, while Lady Edith and Daisy talked. Then his dad lifted his hands and put them together, almost like praying. Yes that was it. William had his eyes closed now, and was at rest, almost praying. He relaxed as he felt his legs and feet go numb.

Mr. Mason put his hand on his boy's shoulder. "There, there. It's all right, son," he whispered.

The bedclothes lifted off William's battered body and he couldn't breathe well, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He wished for so many things – things that would never happen now.

He wanted to tell Daisy that he was thankful, so thankful for what she'd done. He was married and now, at last the war was over and he could rest.

Tim Speakes' words came back to him once more but William wished to correct the man. He felt light, weightless as a feather, and his tired body seemed to drift upward.

_No, Speakes,_ he wished to say. You were _wrong_. _So, so wrong. Heaven __is__ flying_, was his last thought.

Mrs. Patmore was trying to get Daisy to leave for a few moments saying she must be exhausted. "I'll sit with him, you go and rest. Poor dear. You must be all worn out."

"No, I'll stay. I must stay. He needs me now," said Mrs. William Mason.

Mr. Mason knew the signs. He'd seen them when his dear wife Paula was taken by the cancer. He watched as William breathed slower and slower, each breath taking many seconds. Finally he said sadly, "Daisy, he don't need any of us for anything now."

Daisy turned to look at William and wondered at that fateful and awe filled moment, where he had gone. She wiped a single tear from her eyes then bent down and kissed her husband.

Mrs. Patmore began to cry and so did Lady Edith as Mr. Mason stood stooped and trembling by the bed.

000

The telephone rang at the village hospital and Clarkson received a message he was needed at the Abbey, but not urgently.

He put on his coat and hat, picked up his bag, went down corridor and saw Lady Mary tending to Matthew. He sighed as he looked at the sad scene and then cleared his throat so Mary would look at him. The doctor crooked a finger and she followed him into the hall.

Matthew watched her go and return after a brief absence. She returned and slumped down by him. "What's that about?"

Mary cocked her head and swiped at her cheek. "Matthew… Dr. Clarkson's just…"

"Yes?"

"He's going up to the house," she said sadly.

Matthew looked at her full on. "Oh." He took a huge lungful of air and let it out slowly. "Is it?"

Mary reached and held his left hand tenderly. "Matthew… we knew…" she cleared her throat and looked away. "We knew how hurt he was… He just…" she stopped not being able to speak.

He squeezed her hand. "It's all right. Funny it's me comforting you when that's all you've been doing day and night for days."

She screwed her face up in anguish then dropped her face onto his shoulder. "Oh, Matthew, I am sorry," she whispered and he felt the patter of hot tears on his skin. "He's gone. He's just gone away."

"Oh," he said and the memory of the blast replayed in his head.

The shell dropped in on them, screaming in a rising pitch which became a rumble, then a concussive roar. Then William Mason screamed out, "Sir!" and with an outstretched arm threw his body backwards into Matthew. The roar became a giant blast and strangely, the way he recalled the whole thing, it became a flash of light, lighting up William in a halo, before they were both thrown backwards. Sight failed first and then sound and then came blackness. It didn't seem fair, not at all, Matthew realized.

Matthew clutched at Mary's back with his other arm and felt tears stream down his cheeks. "No. No! No!" he whispered, the words being torn from his throat.

Mary rubbed his shoulder. "He was…" Her head dropped and her forehead fell to touch his as he writhed in misery.

Matthew swallowed snot and tears and gasped out, "A good man. A _very_ good man!" His right hand dropped to the bed and started to beat on his thigh, but there, he felt _nothing_.


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39 – Coda

Mary stirred in her sleep, rolled slowly from one side to the other and reached out for Matthew. His side of the bed was empty. Her hand ran about searching to no avail so she sat up and called out for her husband. "Matthew?" From somewhere she heard a faint rumble outside Crawley House in the village center.

Not hearing an answer, she levered her head up off the pillow, and in the dim light saw her husband standing at the window in his dressing gown. He had his head held to the gap in the curtains.

"Matthew, is something wrong?"

The only answer was more thunder in the distance.

She rolled to her right side, swung her legs off the bed and into her slippers, as the radium clock hands showed 2:17 AM. Mary stood with difficulty and shuffled across the room to his side. She touched his arm gently and repeated his name.

Matthew pulled his head out of the drapes and his face shocked her as his face was lined and sad and eyes all red.

"Oh, Matthew! Whatever is the matter?"

Matthew rubbed his eyes. "Just watching the lightning."

"Let me see?"

He pulled aside the drapes, and put his arm across her shoulders and pulled her bulging belly to his side. "There."

Mary watched and could see flashes in the sky. "It's only a bad storm. Come back to bed?" She heard a rumble seconds after each flash.

"Woke me up. And you know…" he started to say but stopped. "Nothing."

"Yes? Tell me? What is it?"

He sighed. "When I see lightning flashes and hear thunder like that it reminds me of artillery fire."

Mary felt her heart leap into her throat and the baby kicked her bladder. "You've not often spoken of the war, Matthew." That was one of the gaps in their lives. Three years he had served and most of that time was lost to her; almost like it never happened. Each time she asked, he evaded the question or sat there silently.

His head sagged. "I know." He dropped his arm from her shoulders and crossed his arms. "Didn't mean to bring it up." His face turned back to the window.

"Matthew?"

She heard him sniffle in reply as he spoke. "I was thinking of William. William Mason," he said sadly. "I miss him."

"Oh, Matthew," she said with compassion, hugging him as she put her head against his shoulder. "I am sorry."

"He was a good man," said Matthew. "The best there was. William used to say that artillery fire reminded him of storms." He looked down at her face. "So now it's come full circle. Storms remind me of artillery."

"Yes it has, for you," Mary said. She rubbed his back and she could feel tension there. "Will you come back to bed?"

"In a moment." There was a pause. "You know… it's been not quite three years." He said this matter-of-factly but his hand took hers and squeezed. "In August…"

She nodded. It _had_ been three years since that terrible summer of 1918. The baby kicked her again, her back was aching, her engorged breasts were sore as well, and she had to use the toilet. "I know."

In those three years, he was wounded and brought home, recovered the use of his legs and other things (the baby kicked her as a reminder). Then the Spanish Flu came along, carrying off poor Lavinia. In between she had struggled with Matthew's injury, his impending wedding to Lavinia Swire, and her fruitless engagement to Richard Carlisle.

Then Lavinia died from the Flu, just as Matthew was nearly fit once more. Mary shook her head remembering the roiled emotions she had felt and still being linked to Carlisle only made it worse. Then came the night when Matthew and Richard fought and he left. She was sad it had gone that way but was not sad that _particular_ engagement had ended.

And so, after a time, Matthew and she could no longer ignore the feelings they had for one another and at Christmas 1919 Matthew had proposed. He'd gone ahead even though she had come totally clean about the Pamuk incident.

Matthew took her _as she was_ and if that did not mean he loved her then she did not know what did. She ran her hand over his back where the scars from his injury still showed and pressed into his side as memory flowed along with her.

Mary had gleefully accepted his proposal and they were married the next summer. And in between poor Bates had been sent to prison and soon after their wedding she had happily gotten pregnant. She raised his left hand and kissed his knuckles, especially the one with the shrapnel scar.

"I have been praying and hoping that our baby," he softly rubbed her rounded belly with his other hand, "would never know war. That William… and I… and the rest..." He cleared his throat. "That we'd done our bit and that was the end of it - forever. That our…" he coughed, "_his_… sacrifice would be enough."

"That would be nice, wouldn't it? I've thought the same thing." Mary loved this man with all her heart, but the war had absorbed part of Matthew and she hated the leaders who had started the entire bloody mess.

So many men were gone forever; so many boys, fathers, brothers and uncles lost. Some survived yet were dead inside. There were times Matthew was moody, silent, and sat staring off into the void. Then she'd repeat her question and he'd blink, smile and apologize. Those were the times that she most hated the war. Her hate of what it had done to Matthew, plus all the rest of course. What terrors did he carry with him that he could not, or would not, let escape? She kissed his hand once more.

Matthew turned and smiled grimly down at her. "I pray for our offering to have been enough."

Thunder crashed and Mary twitched but the feel of Matthew's warm arms steadied her.

"There, there," he said. "It's all right."

She still shivered. "If it's a girl… she'd not have to serve in the armed forces, now would she?" She smiled up at him and he smiled too, his eyes glinting in the lighting flash.

He said softly, "I hope it's a girl and that she has your eyes." His face shone in the irregular lightning.

She cleared her throat. "But what if I want a boy? What then?" She laughed. "We'll know in two and a half months, won't we?"

"Yes." He bent down and kissed her cheek. "But if it's a boy, he might have to face the guns some day."

"Whichever it is," she smiled, "they'll live their life, won't they? Come what may."

The two stood there silently watching the lightning storm on the horizon for a few minutes.

"That's quite a storm out there," she said after a particularly violent exchange of lightning flashes, some now streaking from cloud to cloud.

Matthew put his arms about her. "There will always be storms, Mary. We have to face them as they come."

She kissed his cheek. "Tell me about the war? What was it like at the Front?" her soft voice asked. Mary felt him tense up once more. "It's quite all right," Mary said. "When you're ready. But I do want to know. Someday."

Matthew hung his head and wondered how much he'd be able to tell, if at all. He'd paid the price, each year went to Remembrance Sunday services, wore his uniform and tried to forget, or at least not remember. But what could he say to his wife? That he'd seen murder and death, sacrifice and bravery, stupidity and brilliance?

"Come on, daddy," she said tugging on his arm. "Your son or daughter wants to lie down." She towed him back to bed and they nestled together, face to face.

She scrunched over and pushed her vast belly against him, wanting him to know that they - she and their baby - were with him, no matter what. She put her hand on the back of his neck. "I love you."

Matthew remembered the night when the mortar round fell on him and was a dud. He had asked his aide, _"William, however will we tell them, back at home, what we've seen here? Done here?"_

Nearly three years on and he thought that he might have an answer. He pressed his lips to Mary's hair and inhaled deeply as the terrors of his memories retreated. How to tell what he'd seen and done? There was only one way he knew, and once started he might never be able to stop.

The legend of Scheherazade was that a slave girl saved her life by entertaining a cruel sultan with fantastic tales, so fascinating to him that he did not kill her after one night in his bed. After 1,001 nights he found he could no longer do without his bedtime story and thusly loved the girl for a happy ending to the tale.

He'd told Mary that it was now almost three years since that summer. Almost 1,001 nights had gone by since the attack which knocked him out of action. Scheherazade saved her life by telling a story. Could he do the same?

Matthew kissed her cheek and then began haltingly to speak. "At the Front," he grunted, "it was dirty… always dirty." His voice petered out.

"Go on."

He sighed deeply. "Impossible to get clean… or stay clean."

"Yes." Mary said and felt the baby squirm, wishing she could see its little arms about its father; a man who like so many had been right up to the gates of Hell and escaped that dreadful place.

"And the mud," he continued, grimacing. "At times it was like thin soup, others like wet cement, cloying and grabbing at you, sucking the boots right off your feet. And it was always, always cold. Soaking through your clothing like ice water."

"How did you stay warm?"

"Well, when it got really miserably cold, you'd snuggle up with someone else."

"Really. Like this?" She hugged his warm body against hers.

He smiled in the dark at her. "Not quite like this." He squeezed her. "A lot less enjoyable."

"I can imagine. Go on, Matthew. I want to know." She sighed as it might be the only way for him to get on with the rest of his life.

"Oh?" he paused. Maybe it _was_ time? But he'd have to be careful as there were things that he'd not want to remember, let alone speak, even in the depths of his mind. "So we lay there, nearly freezing to death…"

"Poor dears, horrible."

"Yes it _was_ horrible." Matthew went on. "But there were moments when…" he said, his words finally telling the dearest soul he knew about the Front.

- The End -

**Notes:**

**_Downton Abbey_, its characters and plots, are co-owned by Carnival and Masterpiece Theater. The story presented above is for entertainment purposes only.**

**On history:**

**The Great War lasted from July 28, 1914 to Nov. 11, 1918. It was precipitated by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria on June 24, 1914. It was the first war fought on land, sea, and in the air. Casualties were enormous. Total world deaths are estimated at 15 million with 20 million wounded. **

**The United Kingdom, with a population of around 45 million, had nearly 887,000 military deaths and almost 1.67 million wounded. With another civilian 107,000 dead from disease and famine, the total for the UK was 2.2% of the population. Obviously a very high percentage of young men (and conscripts were from age 18 to 41) suffered a disproportionate number of deaths and wounds. Some soldiers were wounded three or four times, treated, and then sent back into combat as the need for forces was so dear. And the losses went into the next decade and after.**

**For the women at home, the 1921 UK census showed that there were 1,209 women for every 1,000 man and by 1931 half of those women were still single. **

**The Great War devastated an entire generation of eligible men. Those who were not killed may have been maimed physically or mentally, and were unable to marry or support a family. **

**The lost generation of Tommies resulted in two million women in the UK who _never_ married or had children and _they were casualties as well_.**

**The so-called Spanish Flu, or the 1918 Flu Pandemic which struck late in the war, caused around one-third of all military deaths for all combatants. It is possible that the pandemic originated at Fort Riley, Kansa, in the United States, where Army recruits started to suffer in January 1918. It quickly spread world wide thanks to better transportation systems. **

**Anywhere from 50 to 100 million people died, 3 to 6% of the world's population, showing that disease was a far more efficient method of killing.**

**The Great War, or The World War, saw the introduction of machine guns, poison gas, aerial combat, recon, and bombing, mass artillery barrages (some of which lasted 24 hours and fired one million rounds in a single engagement) and armored vehicles.**

**The machine gun gave rise to "trench warfare" bogging down entire armies over a "Front" that stretched for hundreds of miles. The tank, an armored vehicle and a secret weapon developed by the British, was not a decisive weapon, but certainly one that tipped the balance for the Allies. By war's end the British had fielded almost 1,000, while the Central Powers had 20 of their own, plus around 200 captured British tanks.**

**At the same time military medicine and logistics made great strides in treating sick and wounded, and made it possible to supply vast armies and navies. Along with modern (telegraph, telephone, and even radio) communications, the stage was set for the next major conflict.**

**The technology of the Great War was a preamble to what would come later. The War to End All Wars did not stop human warring nature, merely setting the stage for World War II.**

**On the author:**

**Thank you for reading my tale of Matthew Crawley and William Mason, and a few other characters, at the Western Front as seen from the UK's side of the trenches.**

**The conditions I have described, such as mud, rats, diseases, battles, shell shock, and enemy fire, as well as absurd military orders, are based upon fact.**

**I once read about WWII - "There is no bigger proponent for Peace than a combat infantryman." I suspect that Matthew Crawley and his men would agree.**

**This has been a tough story to write. I hoped to tell the story of the _men_ amid the carnage in that terribly long struggle. Based on your reviews I may have accomplished that much.**

**On a personal note, my maternal grandfather was in the US Army artillery and was in combat in mid-1918 at Chateau Thierry. My maternal grandmother's brother was a US Army motor ambulance driver and was gassed at and survived but suffered from 'bad lungs' the rest of his days. **

**And I have many other ancestors and family who have had to learn the art of war, and when it was over had to set that aside and get on with their lives.**

**As Taps blows on this story I wish to say thank you for letting me take you on a visit to The Front with its pain, suffering, comradeship, mission, and sacrifice. **

**If my story has caused a few nightmares (I know it has for me) then I apologize. Condemn history, if you would, and not me.**

**Thank you for reading and reviewing.**

**Cheers,**

**Rob (also known as robspace54)**


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